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THE 



POETICAL WORKS 



OF 



ALICE AND PHCEBE GARY 



J^ousfel)olO Coition 



WITH ILLUSTRATIONS 




BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 



TS 



A 



H^ 



Copyright, 1865, 
By ALICE GARY. 

Copyright, 1867, 1873, and i876> 
Bv HURD AND HOUGHTON. 

CopjTight, 1882, 
By HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANV 



All rights reserved. 



Tke Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass., U. S. A. 
Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton & Company. 



PUBLISHERS' NOTE. 



The poems of Alice and Phcfibe Cary were published in a joint 
volume during the life-time of the sisters ; the first venture was 
made in this way in 1849, and the large public interested in their 
songs has ever since instinctively connected writers, who, bound to- 
gether by peculiar ties, were as akin and divergent in their poetry 
as they were in their natures. Subsequently to the first venture, 
they issued their volumes of poetry separately, but after their 
death, the editor of their writings, Mrs. Mary Clemmer, again asso- 
ciated them. Her Memorial contained their later poems ; this vol- 
ume was followed by the " Last Poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary," 
and finally by " Ballads for Little Folk," again a joint collection. 

The poems, scattered thus through several volumes, are now 
brought together into a single volume, each writer having her own 
portion. To facilitate comparison and reference, it has been 
thought desirable to classify the poems upon a common plan which 
agTees substantially with that adopted by Mrs. Clemmer. 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 



The father of Alice and Phoebe Gary was a descendant in the 
sixth generation of John Gary, the teacher of the first Latin school 
in Plymouth, a man of good birth and education, who emigrated to 
New England in 1630. One of his sons was among the founders 
of Windham, Gonnecticut, and a grandson of the latter, Samuel 
Gary, a physician of repute, was one of the first settlers of Lyme, 
New Hampshire. From this town, his son Ghristopher and his 
grandson Robert emigrated to the then wilderness of Ohio in 1803. 

In a little farmhouse in the Miami Valley, eight miles north of 
Gincinnati, Alice, the fourth of the nine children of Robert Gary, 
was born, April 26, 1820. The sixth child, Phoebe, was born Sep- 
tember 4, 1824. From their father they inherited a love of poetry 
and of nature ; from their mother, a devotion to duty with a clear 
perception of what the duty nearest to them was. The life of both 
parents and children was one of hard, unremitting toil. Alice Gary, 
looking back to it in her last days, said : " It seemed as if there was 
actually nothing in existence but work. The whole family struggle 
was just for the right to live free from the curse of debt. . . . We 
hungered and thirsted for knowledge, but there was not a dozen 
books on the family shelf, not a library within our reach. There 
was little time to study, and had there been more, there was no 
chance to learn but in the district school. I never went to any 
other, — not very much to that." 

Mrs. Gary died in 1835, an inexpressible loss to her young daugh- 
ters. Her place was soon filled by a hard, uncultured stepmother, 
who for a time made all study more than ever difficult for the eager 
girls. Their parents had been early converts to Universalism, and 
its journal, The Trui7ipet, was for many years the only paper seen 
by the sisters, its Poet's Gorner their sole inspiration. Gradually, 
as they grew towards womanhood, new books began to be added to 
the scanty cottage library, and magazines and newspapers were to 
be found there. For years Alice published verses in various minor 
periodicals without any pecuniary return therefor, the first money 
that she earned by her pen being ten dollars sent by Dr. Bailey of 
the National Era, as a gratuity, after she had contributed regu- 
larly to the paper for months. But the names of the sisters had 
become well and favorably known to many readers, and thev began 
to receive words of -ecognition and encouragement. Their first 
visitor from the outside world was Horace Greeley, later to be one 
of their dearest friends, who, during a sojourn in Cincinnati in 1849, 



11 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 

called at their cottage. That same year the sisters collected and 
revised their published poems, which were brought out in a little 
volume by Moss & Brother of Philadelphia, and in the summer of 
1850 they travelled eastward for the first time, going to New York, 
and later to Boston, finding their way to the house of Whittier at 
Amesbury, for that visit of which he has preserved the memory in 
his poem The Singer, the most beautiful and enduring tribute ever 
paid to Alice Gary. 

A year later the sisters were living in New York, which was to 
be their home for the remainder of their lives. They had come to 
the great city to seek their fortune, a somewhat rash venture, in 
which ignorance of life stood them in the stead of courage. But 
they brought industry, frugality, and good sense, as well as their 
literary gifts, to the quest, and soon an unusual degree of success 
crowned their efforts. In 1852-3 appeared Alice's first and second 
series of Clovcrnook Papers, fresh and vivid pictures of the country 
life and people she knew so well, which at once attained wide pop- 
ularity. These were speedily followed by the Clovernook Children 
for younger readers. Much of the grace and naturalness which so 
pleasantly characterize these books reappears in Fict tires of Coun- 
try Life (1859). Her best prose work is to be found in these vol- 
umes. Whether in prose or verse, as a delineator of nature and of 
the rural folk who live near to it, her touch was sure and true. In 
dealing with a more complex life she was far less fortunate, as the 
few novels she published between the years 1852 and 1868 plainly 
show. 

But it is by her poems that Alice Gary is best known. A collec- 
tion of these, Lyra and Other Poems, was brought out in 1852, fol- 
lowed by a more complete edition in 1855. Lyrics and LLytnns 
appeared in 1866, and two years later The Lover's Diary, a tender 
and beautiful memorial of her youngest sister, who died in 1862, — 
a book very near its author's heart, though it never gained the pop- 
ular favor bestowed upon her other volumes of verse. The amount 
of Phoebe's work is small in comparison with that of her sister, two 
volumes of poems. Poems and Parodies (1854), and Poems of Faith, 
Hope and Love (1868). 

In 1856, the pretty house in Twentieth Street, whose gracious 
hospitality was known to so many guests, became the sisters' home. 
Here Alice died, February 12, 1871. Always delicate, and always, 
it is to be feared, overworked, for her persistent industry left no 
time for rest or relaxation, for two years her life had been one of 
hopeless invalidism, but she labored almost to the end, till her pen 
literally dropped from her hand. The two sisters, though differing 
widely in temperament and characteristics, were singularly devoted 
to each other, and the elder's death proved a mortal blow to the 
younger, who died in Newport, Rhode Island, July 31, 1871. 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



ALICE GARY'S POEMS. 



Page 

Ballads and Narrative Poems. 

The Young Soldier 3 

Ruth and I 4 

Hagen Walder 5 

Our School-master 5 

The Gray Swan 6 

The Washerwoman 7 

Growing Rich 8 

Sandy Macleod 8 

The Picture-book 9 

A Walk through the Snow . . 9 

The Water-bearer 10 

The Best Judgment 12 

Hugh Thorndyke 13 

Faithless 13 

My Faded Shawl 14 

Old Chums 16 

The Shoemaker 17 

To the Wind 18 

Little Cyrus 18 

Fifteen and Fifty 20 

Jenny Dunleath 22 

Tricksey's Ring 24 

Crazy Christopher 26 

The Ferry of Gallaway .... 28 

Revolutionary Story 28 

The Daughter 30 

The Might of Love 31 

" The Grace Wife of Keith " . . 31 

Johnny Right 33 

The Settler's Christmas Eve . . 34 

The Old Story 36 

Balder's Wife 37 

At Rehearsal 37 

The Fisherman's Wife .... 38 

Maid and Man 40 

The Double Skein 40 

Selfish Sorrow 41 

The Edge of Doom 43 

The Chopper's Child .... 43 

The Dead House 45 



Page 

One Moment 47 

The Flax Beater 48 

Cottage and Hall 49 

The Mines of Avondale ... 50 

The Victory of Perry .... 52 

The Window just over the Street 53 

A Fable of Cloud-land .... 54 

Barbara at the Window ... 55 

Barbara in the Meadow .... 56 

Ballad of Uncle Joe 56 

The Farmer's Daughter ... 58 
Poems of Thought and Feeling. 

On seeing a Drowning Moth . . 59 

Good and Evil 59 

Stroller's Song 60 

A Lesson 60 

" He spoils his house and throws 

his pains away " .... 60 

On seeing a Wild Bird .... 60 

Rich, though Poor 61 

" Still from the unsatisfying 

quest" 61 

" The glance that doth thy neigh- 
bor doubt " 61 

Sixteen 61 

Prayer for Light 62 

The Uncut Leaf 62 

The Might of Truth . . . . ; 63 

Two Travelers 63 

The Blind Traveler 64 

My Good Angel 64 

Care 65 

More Life 65 

Contradictory 65 

This is All 66 

In Vain 66 

Best, to the Best 66 

Thorns 67 

Old Adam 67 

Sometimes 67 

" Too much of joy is sorrowful " 68 



IV 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



Page 

The Sea-side Cave 68 

The Measure of Time .... 68 

Idle Fears 69 

" Do not look for wrong and 

evil " 69 

" Our unwise purposes are wisely 

crossed " 69 

Hints 69 

To a Stagnant River .... 70 
" Apart from the woes that are 

dead and gone " .... 70 

Counsel 70 

Latent Life 71 

How and Where 71 

The Felled Tree 71 

A Dream 72 

Work 72 

Comfort 73 

Faith and Works 73 

The Rustic Painter 73 

One of Many 74 

The Shadow 74 

The Unwise Choice 75 

Providence 75 

The Living Present 76 

The Weaver's Dream .... 76 

Not Now 77 

Crags 77 

Man 77 

To Solitude 78 

The Law of Liberty 78 

My Creed 78 

Open Secrets 79 

The Saddest Sight 79 

The Bridal Hour 80 

idle 80 

God is Love 80 

Life's Mysteries 81 

" We are the mariners, and God 

the sea " 82 

" The best man should never pass 

by" 82 

Pledges 82 

Proverbs in Rhyme 83 

Fame 83 

Genius 83 

In Bonds 84 

Nobilitv 84 

To the Muse 85 

" Her voice was sweet and low " 85 

No Ring 85 

Text and Moral 86 

To my Friend 86 

One of Many 87 

Light 87 

Trust 88 

Life 88 



Page 

Plea for Charity 89 

Second Sight 90 

Life's Roses 92 

Secret Writing 92 

Dreams 93 

My Poet 94 

Written on the Fourth of July, 

1864 94 

Abraham Lincoln 95 

Saved 95 

Spent and misspent 96 

Last and Best 96 

Poems of Nature and Home. 

If and If 98 

An Order for a Picture .... 99 

The Summer Storm loi 

The Special Darling loi 

A Dream of Home 102 

Evening Pastimes 102 

Faded Leaves 103 

The Light of Days gone by . . 103 

A Sea Song 104 

Sermons in Stones 104 

My Picture 104 

Morning in the Mountains . . 105 

The Thistle Flower 106 

My Darlings 106 

The Field Sweet'brier .... 107 
The Little House on the Hill . 108 

The Old House 108 

The Blackbird 109 

Cradle Song 109 

Going to Court 109 

On the Sea no 

A Fragment no 

Shadows iii 

April Ill 

Poppies 112 

A Sea Song 113 

Winter and Summer 113 

Autumn 114 

Damaris 114 

A Lesson 115 

Katrina on the Porch . . . .116 

The West Country 116 

The Old Homestead 117 

Contradiction 117 

My Dream of Dreams . . . . 1 18 

In the Dark 119 

An Invalid's Plea 119 

Poems of Love. 

The Bridal Veil 121 

Pitiless Fate I2i 

The Lover's Interdict . . . .122 

Snowed Under 123 

An Emblem 124 

Queen of Roses 124 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



Page 

Now and Then 125 

The Lady to the Lover . . . .125 
Love's Secret Springs . . . .126 

At Sea 126 

A Confession 127 

Easter Bridal Song 127 

Prodigal's Plea 128 

The Seal Fisher's Wife . . . .128 

Carmia 12S 

Epithalamium 129 

Jennie 129 

Pictures of Memory 130 

Miriam 130 

" O winds ! ye are too rough " . 130 
Poems of Grief and Consolation. 

Mourn not 131 

- Consolation 131 

Under the Shadow 131 

Lost Lilies 132 

A Wonder 133 

Most lieloved 133 

My Darlings 134 

In Despair 134 

Wait 135 

The Other Side 135 

A Wintry Waste 135 

The Shadow 136 

How Peace came 136 

Be still 136 

Vanished 137 

Safe 137 

Waiting 138 

Intimations 138 

The Great Question 138 

" What comfort, when with 

clouds of woe " 138 

Religious Poems and Hymns. 

Thanksgiving 139 

" Hope in our hearts doth only 

stay " 144 

Morning 144 

One Dust 145 

Signs of Grace 145 

January 146 

Alone 147 

A Prayer 147 

Counsel 147 

Supplication 148 

Putting off the Armor .... 148 

Forgiveness 148 

The Golden Mean 149 

The Fire by the Sea 149 

The Sure Witness 150 

A Penitent's Plea 150 

Love is Life 151 

"Thy works, O Lord, interpret 

Thee" 151 



Page 
" Our God is love, and that which 

we miscall " 151 

Time 151 

Supplication 151 

Whither 152 

Sure Anchor 152 

Remember 152 

Adelied 153 

Sunday Morning 153 

In the Dark 153 

Parting Song 154 

The Heaven that's here . . . 154 
" Among the pitfalls in our way " 154 

The Stream of Life 154 

Dead and Alive 155 

Invocation 155 

Life of Life 155 

Mercies 156 

Pleasure and Pain 156 

Mysteries 156 

Lyric 156 

Trust 157 

All in All 157 

The Pure in Heart 157 

Unsatisfied 158 

Occasional 158 

Light and Darkness 1 58 

Substance 159 

Life's Mystery 159 

For Self-help 159 

Dying Hymn 160 

Extremities 160 

Here and There 160 

The Dawn of Peace 160 

" Why should our spirits be op- 

prest ?" 161 

Poems for Children. 

The Little Blacksmith .... 162 

Little Children 162 

A Christmas Story 162 

November 164 

Make-believe 165 

A Nut hard to crack .... 167 

Hide and Seek 167 

Three Bugs 168 

Waiting for Something to turn 

up 169 

Suppose 170 

A Good Rule 170 

To Mother Fairie 171 

Barbara Blue 172 

Take Care 172 

The Grateful Swan 173 

A Short Sermon 174 

Story of a Blackbird I75 

Fairy-folk 175 

Buried Gold 176 



VI 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



Page 
Recipe for an Appetite . . . .177 
The Pig and the Hen .... 177 

Spider and Fly 178 

A Lesson of Mercy 178 

The Flower Spider 179 

Dan and Dimple and how they 

quarreled 179 

To a Honey-bee 179 



Page 

At the Tavern 180 

What a Bird taught 180 

Old Maxims \?>i. 

Peter Grey 181 

A Sermon for Young Folks . . 182 

Telling Fortunes 182 

The Wise Fairy 183 

A Child's Wisdom 184 



PHCEBE GARY'S POEMS. 



Bat,lads and Narrative Poems. 

Dovecote Mill 189 

The Homestead 189 

The Gardener's Home . . . 190 

The Mill 191 

Sugar-making 191 

The Playmates 192 

The School 193 

Youth and Maiden .... 194 
The Country Grave-yard . . 195 

Wooing 196 

Plighted 197 

Wedded 198 

The Baby 199 

The Father 200 

The Wife 202 

A Ballad of Lauderdale . . . 203 

The Three Wrens 205 

Dorothy's Dower 208 

Black Ranald 208 

The Leak in the Dike .... 210 
The Landlord of the Blue Hen .212 

The King's Jewel 213 

Edgar's Wife 214 

The Fickle Day 214 

The Maid of Kirconnel . . . .215 
Saint Macarius of the Desert . .215 

Fair Eleanor 217 

Breaking the Roads 217 

The Christmas Sheaf .... 219 

Little Gottlieb 220 

A Monkish Legend 221 

Arthur's Wife 222 

Gracie 223 

Poor Margaret 224 

Lady Marjory 224 

The Old Man's Darling . . . 227 

A Tent Scene 227 

The Lady Jaqueline 228 

The Wife's Christmas .... 228 
Coming round ... : • • 229 
The Lamp on the Prairie . . . 230 
Poems of Thought and Feeling. 
A Weary Heart 232 



Coming Home 232 

Hidden Sorrow 233 

A Woman's Conclusions . . . 233 

Answered 234 

Disenchanted 234 

Alas ! 234 

Mother and Son 235 

Theodora 235 

Up and down 236 

Beyond 237 

Favored 237 

Women 238 

The only Ornament 238 

Equality 239 

Ebb Tide 239 

Happy Women 239 

Loss and Gain 239 

A Prayer 240 

Memorial 240 

The Harmless Luxury .... 241 

Tried and True 241 

Peace 242 

Sunset 242 

Apology 242 

The Shadow 243 

Morning and Afternoon . . . 243 

Living by Faith 243 

My Lady 244 

Passing Feet 245 

My Riches 245 

Figs of Thistles 245 

Impatience 246 

Thou and 1 246 

Nobody's Child 247 

Poems of Nature and Home. 

An April Welcome 248 

My Neighbor's House .... 248 
The Fortune in the Daisy . . . 249 

A Picture 249 

Faith 249 

To an YAi on a Buttercup . . . 250 

Providence 250 

Old Pictures 251 

The Playmates ....... 252 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



VU 



Page 
"The Barefoot Boy" . . . . 252 

Winter Flowers 253 

March Crocuses 253 

Homesick 253 

" Field Preaching" 254 

Gathering Blackberries .... 255 

_ Our Homestead 256 

Spring after the War .... 257 

The Book of Nature 257 

Sugar-making 258 

Spring Flowers 259 

Poems of Love and Friendship. 

Amy's Love Letter 260 

Do you blame her ? 260 

Song 261 

Somebody's Lovers 261 

On the River 262 

Inconstancy 263 

Love cannot die 263 

Helpless 263 

My Helper 264 

Faithful 264 

The Last Act 265 

True Love 266 

Complaint 266 

Doves' Eyes 266 

The Hunter's Wife 267 

Lovers and Sweethearts . . . 267 

The Rose 268 

Archie 268 

A Day Dream 269 

The Prize 269 

A Woman's Answer 269 

In Absence 270 

Enchantment 270 

Wooed and Won 270 

Love's Recompense 271 

Jealousy 271 

Song 271 

I cannot tell 272 

Dead Love 272 

My Friend 273 

Dreams and Realities .... 276 

Religious Poems and Hymns. 

Nearer Home 278 

Many Mansions 278 

The Spiritual Body 280 

A Good Day 280 

Hymn 281 

Drawing Water 28 1 

Too Late 281 

Retrospect 2S2 

Human and Divine 282 

Over-payment 283 

Vain Repentance 283 

In Extremity 283 

Peccavi 284 



Page 

Christmas 284 

Compensation 285 

Reconciled . 286 

Thou knovvest 287 

Christmas 287 

Prodigals 288 

St. Bernard of Clairvaux . . . 289 
The Widow's Thanksgiving . . 289 
Via Crucis, Via Lucis .... 29c' 

Hymn 291 

Of one Flesh 291 

Teach us to wait 291 

In His Arms 292 

" The heart is not satisfied " . . 292 

Unbelief 292 

The Vision on the Mount . . . 293 

A Canticle 293 

The Cry of the Heart and Flesh 294 

Our Pattern 294 

The Earthly House 295 

Ye did it unto Me 296 

The Sinner at the Cross . . . 296 

The Heir 297 

Realities 297 

Hymn 29S 

Wounded 298 

A Cry of the Heart 298 

Poems of Grief and Consolation. 

Earth to Earth 300 

The Unhonored 300 

Jennie 301 

Cowper's Consolation .... 301 

, Twice smitten 302 

Border-land 303 

The Last Bed 303 

Light 303 

Waiting the Change 304 

Personal Poems. 

Ready 305 

Dickens 305 

Thaddeus Stevens 306 

John Greenleaf Whittier . . . 306 
The Hero of Fort Wagner . . 307 
Garibaldi in Piedmont .... 307 

John Brown 309 

Otway 309 

Our Good President .... 309 

Poems for Children. 

To the Children 311 

Griselda Goose 311 

The Robin's Nest 316 

Rain and Sunshine 317 

Baby's Ring 318 

Don't give up 318 

The Good Little Sister .... 318 

Now 319 

The Chicken's Mistake .... 320 



Vlll 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



Page 

Effie's Reasons 320 

Feathers 321 

The Prairie on Fire 322 

Dappledun 322 

Suppose 323 

A Legend of the Northland . . 323 

Easy Lessons 324 

Obedience 325 

The Crow's Children . . . . 325 



Page 
Hives and Homes ..... 326 

Nora's Charm 327 

They did n't think 328 

Ajax 328 

" Keep a stiff upper lip "... 329 
What the Frogs sing .... 329 

The Hunchback 330 

The Envious Wren 331 

The Happy Little Wife .... 331 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 



^lice Gary Frontispiece. 

" Emily Mayfield all the day 

Sits and rocks her cradle alone "....<>. ...... 18 

" My lad who was lost at sea " 42 ,' 

The Stagnant River 70> 

" Morn ou the Mountains " 105 

" O Tliou, who all my life hast crowned " 151 ' 

Phoebe Gary 187 / 

" Pretty Bethyat sunset sees 

Some one under the sycamore-trees " 196 / 

" Breaking a road track through the snow " 218 '' 

" Or cling to you in perfect trust " o.... 239 ' 

" Great master of the poet's art " .... o » e. •«.. . 30G '' 

" To feel the sweet spring "..,>.'.>•«>•.. 317 



ALICE GARY'S POEMS. 



TO THE SPIRIT OF SONG. 

APOLOGY. 

[Prefacing the volume of Ballads, Lyrics, and Hymns published iti 1865.] 

O EVER true and comfortable mate, 

For whom my love outwore the fleeting red 
Of my young cheeks, nor did one jot abate, 

I pray thee now, as by a dying bed, 
Wait yet a little longer ! Hear me tell 

How much my will transcends my feeble powers : 

As one with blind eyes feeling out in flowers 
Their tender hues, or, with no skill to spell- 

His poor, poor name, but only makes his mark, 

And guesses '< i. the sunshine in the dark, 
So I have been. A sense of things divine 

Lying broad above the little things I knew, 
The while I made my poems for a sign 

Of the great melodies I felt were true. 
Pray thee accept my sad apology, 

Sweet master, mending, as we go along, 

My homely fortunes with a thread of song, 
That all my years harmoniously may run ; 

Less by the tasks accomplished judging me, 
Than by the better things I would have done. 

I would not lose thy gracious company 
Out of my house and heart for all the good 
Besides, that ever comes to womanhood, — 

And this is much : I know what I resign, 

But at that great price I would have thee mine, 



BALLADS 



NARRATIVE POEMS. 



THE YOUNG SOLDIER. 

Into the house ran Lettice, 

With hair so long and so bright, 

Crying, " Mother ! Johnny has 'listed ! 
He has 'listed into the fight ! " 

" Don't talk so wild, little Lettice ! " 
And she smoothed her darling's 
brow. 
" 'T is true ! you '11 see — as true can 
be — 
He told me so just now ! " 

" Ah, that 's a likely story ! 

Why, darling, don't you see. 
If Johnny had 'listed into the war 

He would tell your father and me ! " 

" But he is going to go, mother, 
Whether it 's right or wrong ; 

He is thinking of it all the while. 
And he won't be with us long." 

"Our Johnny going to go to the 
war ! " 
" Aye, aye, and the time is near ; 
He said, when the com was once in the 
ground, 
We could n't keep him here ! " 

" Hush, child ! your brother Johnny 
Meant to give you a fright." 

" Mother, he '11 go, — I tell you I know 
He 's 'listed into the fight ! 

" Plucking a rose from the bush, he 
said. 

Before its leaves were black 
He 'd have a soldier's cap on his head, 

And a knapsack on his back ! " 

" A dream ! a dream ! little Lettice, 
A wild dream of the night ; 



Go find and fetch your brother in, 
And he will set us right." 

So out of the house ran Lettice, 

Calling near and far, — 
" Johnny, tell me, and tell me true, 

Are you going to go to the war ? " 

At last she came and found him 

In the dusty cattle-close, 
Whistling Hail Columbia, 

And beating time with his rose. 

The rose he broke from the bush, when 
he said. 

Before its leaves were black 
He 'd have a soldier's cap on his head, 

And a knapsack on his back. 

Then all in gay mock-anger. 
He plucked her by the sleeve, 

Saying, " Dear little, sweet little rebel, 
I am going, by your leave ! " 

" O Johnny ! Johnny ! " low he stooped, 
And kissed her wet cheeks dry. 

And took her golden head in his hands, 
And told her he would not die. 

" But, Letty, if anything happens — 
There won't ! " and he spoke more 
low — 
" But if anything should, you must be 
twice as good 
As you are, to mother, you know ! 

" Not but that you are good, Letty, 

As good as you can be ; 
But then you know it might be so. 

You 'd have to be good for me ! " 

So straight to the house they went, his 
cheeks 
Flushing under his brim ; 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



And his two broad-shouldered oxen 
Turned their great eyes after him. 

That night in the good old farmstead 

Was many a sob of pain ; 
" O Johnny, stay ! if you go away, 

It will never be home again ! " 

But Time its still sure comfort lent. 

Crawling, crawling past, 
And Johnny's gallant regiment 

Was going to march at last. 

And steadying up her stricken soul. 

The mother turned about, 
Took what was Johnny's from the 
drawer 

And shook the rose-leaves out ; 

And brought the cap she had lined 
with silk. 
And strapped his knapsack on, 
And her heart, though it bled, was 
proud as she said, 
" You would hardly know our John ! " 

Another year, and the roses 

Were bright on the bush by the 
door ; 
And into the house ran Lettice, 

Her pale cheeks glad once more. 

" O mother ! news has come to-day ! 

'T is flying all about ; 
Our John's regiment, they say. 

Is all to be mustered out ! 

" O mother, you must buy me a dress. 

And ribbons of blue and buff ! 
Oh what shall we say to make the day 
t Merry and mad enough ! 

" The brightest day that ever yet 
The sweet sun looked upon. 

When we shall be dressed in our very 
best, 
To welcome home our John ! " 

So up and down ran Lettice, 

And all the farmstead rung 
With where he would set his bayonet, 

And where his cap would be hung ! 

And the mother put away her look 

Of weary, waiting gloom, 
And a feast was set and the neighbors 
met 

To welcome Johnny home. 



The good old father silent stood, 
With his eager face at the pane, 

And Lettice was out at the door to 
shout 
When she saw him in the lane. 

And by and by, a soldier 

Came o'er the grassy hill ; 
It was not he they looked to see, 

And every heart stood still. 

He brought them Johnny's knapsack, 
'T was all that he could do. 

And the cap he had worn begrimed and 
torn, 
With a bullet-hole straight through ! 



RUTH AND L 

It was not day, and was not night ; 
The eve had just begun to light. 

Along the lovely west. 
His golden candles, one by one, 
And girded up with clouds, the sun 

Was sunken to his rest. 

Between the furrows, brown and dry, 
We walked in silence — Ruth and I ; 

We two had been, since morn 
Began her tender tunes to beat 
Upon the Ma3'-leaves young and sweety 

Together, planting corn. 

Homeward the evening cattle went 
In patient, slow, full-fed content, 

Led by a rough, strong steer, 
His forehead all with burs thick set 
His horns of silver tipt with jet. 

And shapeless shadow, near. 

With timid, half-reluctant grace, 
Like lovers in some favored place, 

The light and darkness met, 
And the air trembled, near and far, 
With many a little tuneful jar 

Of milk-pans being set. 

We heard the house-maids at their cares, 
Pouring their hearts out unawares 

In some sad ])oet's ditty. 
And heard the fluttering echoes round 
Reply like souls all softly drowned 

In heavenly love and pity. 

All sights, all sounds in earth and air 
Were of the sweetest ; everywhere 
Ear, eye, and heart were fed ; 



BALLADS AND NARRATLVE POEMS. 



The grass with one small burning flower 
Blushed bright, as if the elves that hour 
Their coats thereon had spread. 

One moment, where we crossed the 

brook 
Two little sunburnt hands I took, — 

Why did I let them go ? 
I 've been since then in many a land, 
Touched, held, kissed many a fairer 
hand, 
But none that thrilled me so. 

Why, when the bliss Heaven for us 

made 
Is in our very bosom laid, 

Should we be all unmoved. 
And walk, as now do Ruth and I, 
'Twixt th' world's furrows, brown and 
dry. 
Unloving and unloved .-' 



HAGEN WALDER. 

The day, with a cold, dead color 

Was rising over the hill, 
When little Hagen Walder 

Went out to grind in th' mill. 

All vainly the light in zigzags 
Fell through the frozen leaves. 

And like a broidery of gold 
Shone on his ragged sleeves. 

No mother had he to brighten 
His cheek with a kiss, and say, 

" 'T is cold for my little Hagen 
To grind in the mill to-day." 

And that was why the north winds 
Seemed all in his path to meet. 

And why the stones were so cruel 
And sharp beneath his feet. 

And that was why he hid his face 

So oft, despite his will. 
Against the necks of the oxen 

That turned the wheel of th' mill. 

And that was why the tear-drops 

So oft did fall and stand 
Upon their silken coats that were 

As white as a lady's hand. 

So little Hagen Walder 

Looked at the sea and th' sky, 



And wished that he were a salmon, 
In the silver waves to lie ; 

And wished that he were an eagle, 
Away through th' air to soar. 

Where never the groaning mill-wheel 
Might vex him any more : 

And wished that he were a pirate, 
To burn some cottage down. 

And warm himself ; or that he were 
A market-lad in the town, 

With bowls of bright red strawberries 

Shining on his stall, 
And that some gentle maiden 

Would come and buy them all ! 

So little Hagen Walder 

Passed, as the story says. 
Through dreams, as through a golden 
gate. 

Into realities. 

And when the years changed places. 
Like the billows, bright and still, 

In th' ocean, Hagen Walder 
Was the master of the mill. 

And all his bowls of strawberries 

Were not so fine a show 
As are his boys and girls at church 

Sitting in a row ! 



OUR SCHOOI^MASTER. 

We used to think it was so queer 
To see him, in his thin gray hair. 

Sticking our quills behind his ear. 
And straight forgetting they were 
there. 

We used to think it was so strange 
That he should twist such hair to 
curls. 
And that his wrinkled cheek should 
change 
Its color like a bashful girl's. 

Our foolish mirth defied all rule. 
As glances, each of each, we stole. 

The morning that he wore to school 
A rose-bud in his button-hole. 

And very sagely we agreed 

That such a dunce was never known — 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



Fifty! and trying still to read 
Love-verse with a tender tone ! 

No joyous smile would ever stir 
Our sober looks, we often said, 

If we were but a School-master, 

And had, withal, his old white head. 

One day we cut his knotty staff 
Nearly in two, and each and all 

Of us declared that we should laugh 
To see it break and let him fall. 

Upon his old pine de.sk we drew 
His picture — pitiful to see. 

Wrinkled and bald — half false, half 
true. 
And wrote beneath it, Twenty-three ! 

Next day came eight o'clock and nine, 
But he came not : our pulses quick 

With play, we said it would be fine 
If the old School-master were sick. 

And still the beech-trees bear the scars 
Of wounds which we that morning 
made, 
Cutting their silvery bark to stars 

Whereon to count the games we 
played. 

At last, as tired as we could be, 
Upon a clay-bank, strangely still, 

We sat down in a row to see 

His worn-out hat come up the hill. 

'T was hanging up at home — a quill 
Notched down, and sticking in the 
band. 

And leaned against his arm-chair, still 
His staff was waiting for his hand. 

Across his feet his threadbare coat 
Was lying, stuffed with many a roll 

Of "copy-plates," and, sad to note, 
A dead rose in the button-hole. 

And he no more might take his place 
Our lessons and our lives to plan : 

Cold Death had kissed the wrinkled 
face 
Of that most gentle gentleman. 

Ah me, what bitter tears made blind 
Our young eyes, for our thoughtless 
sin, 

A.S two and two we walked behind 
The long black coffin he was in. 



And all, sad women now, and men 
With wrinkles and gray hairs, can see 

How he might wear a rose-bud then, 
And read love-verses tenderly. 



THE GRAY SWAN. 

"Oh tell me, sailor, tell me true, 

Is my little lad, my Elihu, 

A-sailing with your ship ?" 

The sailor's eyes were dim with dew, ^ 

" Your little lad, your Elihu .? " 

He said, with trembling lip, — 
" What little lad t what ship ? " 

'* What little lad ! as if there could be 

Another such an one as he ! 

What little lad, do you say ? 

Why, Elihu, that took to the sea 

The moment I put him off my knee 1 
It was just the other day 
The Gray Swan sailed away." 

" The other day .-"' the sailor's eyes 

Stood open with a great surprise, — 
" The other day ? the Szaan ? " 

His heart began in his throat to rise. 

"Aye, aye, sir, here in the cupboard lies 
The jacket he had on." 
" And so your lad is gone ? " 

" Gone with the Swan." " And did 

she stand 
With her anchor clutching hold of the 
sand, 
For a month, and never stir ? " 
" Why, to be sure ! I 've seen from the 

land, 
Like a lover kissing his lady's hand, 
The wild sea kissing her, — 
A sight to remember, sir." 

" But, my good mother, do you know 
All this was twenty years ago .' 

I stood on the Gray S^vatis deck. 
And to that lad I saw you throw. 
Taking it off, as it might be, so ! 
The kerchief from your neck," 
" Aye, and he '11 bring it back.' " 

" And did the little lawless lad 
That has made you sick and made you 
sad. 
Sail with the Gray Swa?t's crew ? " 
" Lawless ! the man is going mad ! 
The best boy ever mother had, — 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



Be sure he sailed with the crew ! 
What would you have him do ? " 

"And he has never written line, 

Nor sent you word, nor made you 

sign 
To say he was alive ? " 
" Hold ! if 't was wrong, the wrong is 

mine ; 
Besides, he may be in the brine, 

And could he write from the 

grave ? 
Tut, man ! what would you 
have ? " 

" Gone twenty years, — a long, long 

cruise, — 
'T was wicked thus your love to abuse ; 

But if the lad still live. 
And come back home, think you you 

can 
Forgive him ? " — " Miserable man. 

You 're mad as the sea, — you 

rave, — 
What have I to forgive ? " 

The sailor twitched his shirt so blue, 
And from within his bosom drew 

The kerchief. She was wild. 

" My God ! my Father ! is it true .' 
My little lad, my Elihu ! 

My blessed boy, my child ! 

My dead, my living child ! " 



THE WASHERWOMAN. 

At the north end of our village stands. 
With gable black and high, 

A weather-beaten house, — I 've stopt 
Often as I went by, 

To see the strip of bleaching grass 
Slipped brightly in between 

The long straight rows of hollyhocks. 
And currant-bushes green ; 

The clumsy bench beside the door, 

And oaken washing-tub. 
Where poor old Rachel used to stand, 

And rub, and rub, and rub ' 

Her blue-checked apron speckled with 
The suds, so snowy white ; 

From morning when I went to schoof 
Till I went home at night, 



She never took her sunburnt arms 

Out of the steaming tub : 
We used to say 't was weary work 

Only to hear her rub. 

With sleeves stretched straight upon 
the grass 

The washed shirts used to lie ; 
By dozens I have counted them 

Some days, as I went by. 

The burly blacksmith, battering at 

His red-hot iron bands. 
Would make a joke of wishing that 

He had old Rachel's hands ! 

And when the sharp and ringing 
strokes 

Had doubled up his shoe. 
As crooked as old Rachel's back, 

He used to say 't would do. 

And every village housewife, with 
A conscience clear and light, 

Would send for her to come and wash 
An hour or two at night ! 

Her hair beneath her cotton cap 
Grew silver white and thin ; 

And the deep furrows in her face 
Ploughed all the roses in. 

Yet patiently she kept at work, — 
We school-girls used to say 

The smile about her sunken mouth 
Would quite go out some day. 

Nobody ever thought the spark 
That in her sad eyes shone. 

Burned outward from a living soul 
Immortal as their own. 

And though a tender flush sometimes 

Into her cheek would start, 
Nobody dreamed old Rachel had 

A woman's loving heart ! 

At last she left her heaps of clothes 

One quiet autumn day. 
And stript from off her sunburnt 
arms 

The weary suds away ; 

That night within her moonlit door 

She sat alone, — her chin 
Sunk in her hand, — her eyes shut 
up. 

As if to look within. 



8 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



Her face uplifted to the star 
That stood so sweet and low 

Against old crazy Peter's house — 
(He loved her long ago !) 

Her heart had worn her body to 
A handful of poor dust, — 

Her soul was gone to be arrayed 
In marriage-robes, I trust. 



GROWING RICH. 

And why are you pale, my Nora ? 

And why do you sigh and fret ? 
The black ewe had twin lambs to-day, 

And we shall be rich folk yet. 

Do you mind the clover-ridge, Nora, 
That slopes to the crooked stream ? 

The brown cow pastured there this 
week, 
And her milk is sweeet as cream. 

The old gray mare that last year fell 

As thin as any ghost, 
Is getting a new white coat, and looks 

As young as her colt, almost. 

And if the corn-land should do well. 
And so, please God, it may, 

I '11 buy the white-faced bull a bell. 
To make the meadows gay. 

I know we are growing rich, Johnny, 

And that is why I fret, 
For my little brother Phil is down 

In the dismal coal-pit yet. 

And when the sunshine sets- in th' 
corn. 

The tassels green and gay. 
It will not touch my father's eyes, 

That are going blind, they say. 

But if I were not sad for him. 

Nor yet for little Phil, 
Why, darling Molly's hand, last year. 

Was cut off in the mill. 

.And so, nor mare nor brown milch- 
cow. 
Nor lambs can joy impart, 
For the blind old man and th' mill and 
mine 
Are all upon my heart. 



SANDY MACLEOD. 

When I think of the weary nights and 

days 
Of poor, hard-working folk, always 
I see, with his head on his bosom 

bowed, 
The luckless shoemaker, Sandy Mac- 

leod. 

Jeering school-boys used to say 

His chimney would never be raked 

away 
By the moon, and you by a jest so 

rough 
May know that his cabin was low 

enough. 

Nothing throve with him ; his colt and 

cow 
Got their living, he did n't know how, — 
Yokes on their scraggy necks swinging 

about. 
Beating and bruising them year in and 

out. 

Out at the elbow he used to go, — 
Alas for him that he did not know 
The way to make poverty regal, — not 

he. 
If such way under the sun there be. 

Sundays all day in the door he sat, 

A string of withered-up crape on his 

hat, 
The crown half fallen against his head, 
And half sewed in with a shoemaker's 

thread. 

Sometimes with his hard and toil-worn 

hand 
He would smooth and straighten th' 

faded band, 
Thinking perhaps of a little mound 
Black with nettles the long year round. 

Blacksmith and carpenter, both were 

poor, 
And there was the school-master who, 

to be sure. 
Had seen rough weather, but after 

all 
When they met Sandy he went to the 

wall. 

His wife was a lady, they used to say. 
Repenting at leisure her wedding-day 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



A.nd that she was come of a race too 

proud 
E'er to have mated with Sandy Mac- 

leod! 

So fretting she sat from December to 

June, 
While Sandy, poor soul, to a funeral 

tune 
Would beat out his hard, heavy leather, 

until 
He set himself up, and got strength to 

be still. 

It was not the full moon that made it so 

light 
In the poor little dwelling of Sandy 

one night, 
It was not the candles all shining 

around, — 
Ah, no ! 't was the light of the day he 

had found. 



THE PICTURE-BOOK. 

The black walnut logs in the chimney 
Made ruddy the house with their 
light. 

And the pool in the hollow was covered 
With ice like a lid, — it was night; 

And Roslyn and I were together, — 
I know now the pleased look he wore. 

And the shapes of the shadows that 
checkered 
The hard yellow planks of the floor ; 

And how, when the wmd stirred the 
candle, 

Affrighted they ran from its gleams, 
And crept up the wall to the ceiling 

Of cedar, and hid by the beams. 

There were books on the mantel-shelf, 
dusty, 

And shut, and I see in my mind. 
The pink-colored primer of pictures 

We stood on our tiptoes to find. 

We opened the leaves where a camel 
Was seen on a sand-covered track, 

A-snutifing for water, and bearing 
A great bag of gold on his back ; 

^nd talked of the free flowing rivers 
A tithe of his burden would buy, 



And said, when the lips of the sunshine 
Had sucked his last water-skin dry ; 

With thick breath and mouth gaping 
open, 

And red eyes a-strain in his head, 
His bones would push out as if buzzards 

Had picked him before he was dead ! 

Then turned the leaf over, and finding 
A palace that banners made gay. 

Forgot the bright splendor of roses 
That shone through our windows in 
May; 

And sighed for the great beds of princes 
While pillows for him and for me 

Lay soft among ripples of rufiles 
As sweet and as white as could be. 

And sighed for their valleys, forgetting 
How warmly the morning sun kissed 

Our hills, as they shrugged their green 
shoulders 
Above the white sheets of the mist. 

Their carpets of dyed wool were softer, 
We said, than the planks of our floor. 

Forgetting the flowers that in summer 
Spread out their gold mats at our 
door. 

The storm spit its wrath in the chim- 
ney, 

And blew the cold ashes aside, 
And only one poor little faggot 

Hung out its red tongue as it died, 

When Roslyn and I through the dark- 
ness 

Crept off to our shivering beds, 
A thousand vague fancies and wishes 

Still wildly astir in our heads : 

Not guessing that we, too, were straying 
In thought on a sand-covered track, 

Like the camel a-dying for water. 
And bearing the gold on his back. 



A WALK THROUGH THE SNOW. 

I WALKED from our wild north country 
once. 

In a driving storm of snow ; 
Forty and seven miles in a day — 

You smile, — do you think it slow? 



lO 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



You would n't if ever you had ploughed 
Through a storm like that, I trow. 

There was n't a cloud as big as my 
hand, 
The summer before in the sky , 
The grass in the meadows was ground 
to dust, 
The springs and wells went dry ; 
We must have corn, and three stout 
men 
Were picked to go and buy. 

Well, I was one; two bags I swung 

Across my shoulder, so 1 
And kissed my wife and boys, — their 
eyes 

Were blind to see me go. 
'T was a bitter day, and just as th' sun 

Went down, we met the snow ! 

At first we whistled and laughed and 
sung. 
Our blood so nimbly stirred ; 
But as the snow-clogs dragged at our 
feet, 
And the air grew black and blurred, 
We walked together for miles and miles, 
And did not speak a word ! 

I never saw a wilder storm : 
It blew and beat with a will ; 

Beside me, like two men of sleet, 
Walked my two mates, until 

They fell asleep in their armor of ice. 
And both of them stood still. 

I knew that they were warm enough, 

And yet I could not bear 
To strip them of their cloaks ; their eyes 

Were open and a-stare; 
And so I laid their hands across 

Their breasts, and left them there. 

And ran, — O Lord, I cannot tell 

How fast ! in my dismay 
I thought the fences and the trees — 

The cattle, where they lay 
So black against their stacks of snow — 

All swam the other way ! 

And when at dawn I saw a hut, 
With smoke upcurling wide, 

I thought it must have been my mates 
That lived, and I that died ; 

TT was heaven to see through th' frosty 
panes 
The warm, red cheeks inside ! 



THE WATER-BEARER. 

'T WAS in the middle of summer, 

And burning hot the sun. 
That Margaret sat on the low-roofed 
porch, 

A-singing as she spun : 

Singing a ditty of slighted love, 
That shook with every note 

The softly shining hair that fell 
In ripples round her throat. 

The changeful color of her cheek 
At a breath would fall and rise. 

And even th' sunny lights of hope 
Made shadows in her eyes. 

Beneath the snowy petticoat 
You guessed the feet were bare, 

By the slippers near her on the floor, — 
A dainty little pair. 

She loved the low and tender tones 
The wearied summer yields. 

When out of her wheaten leash she 
slips 
And strays into frosty fields. 

And better than th' time that all 

The air with music fills. 
She loved the little sheltered nest 

Alive with yellow bills. 

But why delay my tale, to make 

A poem in her praise ? 
Enough that truth and virtue shone 

In all her modest ways. 

'T was noon-day when the housewife 
said, 

" Now, Margaret, leave undone 
Your task of spinning-work, and set 

Your wheel out of the sun ; 

" And tie your slippers on, and take 

The cedar-pail with bands 
Yellow as gold, and bear to the field 

Cool water for the hands ' " 

And Margaret set her wheel aside, 
And breaking off her thread. 

Went forth into the harvest-field 
With her pail upon her head, — 

Her pail of sweetest cedar-wood, 
With shining yellow bands. 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



II 



Through clover reaching its red tops 
Almost into her hands. 

Her ditty flowing on the air, 
For she did not break her song, 

And the water dripping o'er th' grass. 
From her pail as she went along, — 

Over the grass that said to her, 
Trembling through all its leaves, 

"' A bright rose for some harvester 
To bind among his sheaves ! " 

And clouds of gay green grasshoppers 

Flew up the way she went, 
And beat their wings against their 
sides, 

And chirped their discontent. 

And the blackbird left the piping of 

His amorous, airy glee, 
And put his head beneath his wing, — 

An evil sign to see. 

The meadow-herbs, as if they felt • 
Some secret wound, in showers 

Shook down their bright buds till her 
way 
Was ankle-deep with flowers. 

But Margaret never heard th' voice 
That sighed in th' grassy leaves, 

" A bright rose for some narvester 
To bind among his sheaves ! " 

Nor saw the clouds of grasshoppers 

Along her path arise, 
Nor th' daisy hang her head aside 

And shut her golden eyes. 

She never saw the blackbird when 
He hushed his amorous glee. 

And put his head beneath his wing, — 
That evil sign to see. 

Nor did she know the meadow-herbs 
Shook down their buds in showers 

To choke her pathway, though her feet 
Were ankle-deep in flowers. 

But humming still of slighted love, 

That shook at every note 
The softly shining hair that fell 

In ripples round her throat, 

She came 'twixt windrows heaped as 
high, 
And higher than her waist, 



And under a bush of sassafras 
The cedar-pail she placed. 

And with the drops like starry rain 

A-glittering in her hair, 
She gave to every harvester 

His cool and grateful share. 

But there was one with eyes so sweet 

Beneath his shady brim. 
That thrice within the cedar-pail 

She dipped her rup for him ! 

What wonder- if a young man's heart 
Should feel her beauty's charm. 

And in his fancy clasp her like 
The sheaf within his arm ; 

What wonder if his tender looks, 
That seemed the sweet disguise 

Of sweeter things unsaid, should make 
A picture in her eyes ! 

What wonder if the single rose 
That graced her cheek erewhile, 

Deepened its cloudy crimson, till 
It doubled in his smile ! 

Ah me ! the housewife never said. 
Again, when Margaret spun, — 

" Now leave your task a while, and 
set 
Your wheel out of the sun ; 

" And tie your slippers on, and take 
The pail with yellow bands. 

And bear into the harvest-field 
Cool water for the hands." 

For every day, and twice a-day, 
Did Margaret break her thread. 

And singing, hasten to the field. 
With her pail upon her head, — 

Her pail of sweetest cedar-wood, 
And shining yellow bands, — 

For all her care was now to bear 
Cool water to the hands. 

What marvel if the young man's love 

Unfolded leaf by leaf, 
Until within his arms ere long 

He clasped her like a sheaf ! 

What marvel if 'twas Margaret's heart 
With fondest hopes that beat, 

While th' young man's fancy idly lay 
As his sickle in the wheat. 



12 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



That, while her thought flew, maiden- 
like, 

To years of marriage bliss, 
His lay like a bee in a flower shut up 

Within the moment's kiss ! 

What marvel if his love grew cold, 

And fell off leaf by leaf. 
And that her heart was choked to death, 

Like the rose within his sheaf. 

When autumn filled her lap with leaves, 

Yellow, and cold, and wet. 
The bands of th' pail turned black, and 
th' wheel 

On the porch-side, idle set. 

And Margaret's hair was combed and 
tied 

Under a cap of lace. 
And th' housewife held the baby up 

To kiss her quiet face ; 

And all the sunburnt harvesters 
Stood round the door, — each one 

Telling of some good word or deed 
That she had said or done. 

Nay, there was one that pulled about 

His face his shady brim, 
As if it were his kiss, not Death's, 

That made her eyes so dim. 

And while the tearful women told 
That when they pinned her shroud. 

One tress from th' ripples round her neck 
Was gone, he wept aloud ; 

And answered, pulling down his brim 

Until he could not see, 
It was some ghost that stole the tress, 

For that it was not he ! 

'T is years since on the cedar-pail 
The yellow bands grew black, — 

'T is years since in the harvest-field 
They turned th' green sod back 

To give poor Margaret room, and all 
Who chance that way to pass, 

May see at the head of her narrow bed 
A bush of sassafras. 

Vet often in the time o' th' year 
When the hay is mown and spread. 

There walks a maid in th' midnight 
shade 
With a pail upon her head. 



THE BEST JUDGMENT. 

Get up, my little handmaid, 
And see what you will see ; 

The stubble-fields and all the fields 
Are white as they can be. 

Put on your crimson cashmere, 
And hood so soft and warm, 

With all its woolen linings, 
And never heed the storm. 

For you must find the miller 
In the west of Wertburg-town, 

And bring me meal to feed my cows, 
Before the sun is down. 

Then woke the little handmaid. 

From sleeping on her arm, 
And took her crimson cashmere, 

And hood with woolen warm; 

And bridle, with its buckles 

Of silver, from the wall. 
And rode until the golden sun 

Was sloping to his fall. 

Then on the miller's door-stone, 
In the west of Wertburg-town, 

She dropt the bridle from her hands, 
And quietly slid down. 

And when to her sweet face her beast 
Turned round, as if he said, 

" How cold I am ! " she took hej 
hood 
And put it on his head. 

Soft spoke she to the miller, 

" Nine cows are stalled at home, 

And hither for three bags of meal, 
To feed them, I am come." 

Now when the miller saw the price 
She brought was not by half 

Enough to buy three bags of meal, 
He filled up two with chaff. 

The night was wild and windy. 
The moon was tliin and old. 

As home the little handmaid rode 
All shivering with the cold. 

Beside the river, black with ice, 
And through the lonesome wood ; 

The snow upon her hair the while 
A-gathering like a hood. 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



n 



A.nd when beside the roof -tree 
Her good beast neighed aloud, 

Her pretty crimson cashmere 
Was whiter than a shroud. 

" Get down, you silly handmaid," 
The old dame cried, "get down, — 

You 've been a long time riding 

From the west of Wertburg-town ! '' 

And from her oaken settle 
Forth hobbled she amain, — 

Alas ! the slender little hands 
Were frozen to the rein. 

Then came the neighbors, one and all, 

With melancholy brows. 
Mourning because the dame had lost 

The keeper of her cows. 

And cursing the rich miller. 

In blind, misguided zeal. 
Because he sent two bags of chaff 

And only one of meal. 

Dear Lord, how little man's award 

The right or wrong attest. 
And he who judges least, I think, 

Is he who judges best. 



HUGH THORNDYKE. 

Egalton's hills are sunny. 
And brave with oak and pine. 

And Egalton's sons and daughters 
Are tall and straight and fine. 

The harvests in the summer 
Cover the land like a smile. 

For Egalton's men and women 
Are busy all the while. 

'T is merr\' in the mowing 
To see the great swath fall, 

A.nd the little laughing maidens 
Raking, one and all. 

Their heads like golden lilies 

Shining over the hay, 
And every one among them 

As sweet as a rose in May. 

And yet despite the favor 
Which Heaven doth thus alot^ 

Egalton has its goblin, 
As what good land has not ? 



Hugh Thorndyke — (peace be with him. 

He is not living now) — 
Was tempted by this creature 

One day to leave his plow, 

And sit beside the furrow 
In a shadow cool and sweet. 

For the lying goblin told him 
That he would sow his wheat. 

And told him this, morever, 

That if he would not mind. 
His house should burn to ashes. 

His children be struck blind ! 

So, trusting half, half frightened. 
Poor Hugh with many a groan 

Waited beside the furrow. 
But the wheat was never sown. 

And when the fields about him 
Grew white, — with very shame 

He told his story, giving 
The goblin all the blame. 

Now Hugh's wife loved her husband. 

And when he told her this. 
She took his brawny hands in hers 

And gave them each a kiss. 

Saying, we ourselves this goblin 
Shall straightway lay to rest, — 

The more he does his worst, dear Hugh, 
The more we '11 do our best ! 

To work they went, and all turned out 

Just as the good wife said. 
And Hugh was blest, — his corn that 
year. 

Grew higher than his head. 

They sing a song in Egalton 
Hugh made there, long ago. 

Which says that honest love and work 
Are all we need below. 



FAITHLESS. 

Seven great windows looking seaward, 
Seven smooth columns white and 
J high ; 

Here it was we made our bright plans, 
Mildred Jocelyn and I. 

Soft and sweet the water murmured 
By yon stone wall, low and gray. 



14 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



'T was the moonlight and the midnight 
Of the middle of the May. 

On the porch, now dark and lonesome, 
Sat we as the hours went by, 

Fearing nothing, hoping all things 
Mildred Jocelyn and I. 

Singing low and pleasant ditties, 
Kept the tireless wind his way. 

Through the moonlight and the mid- 
night 
Of the middle of the May. 

Not for sake of pleasant ditties. 
Such as winds may sing or sigh, 

Sat we on the porch together, 
Mildred Jocelyn and I. 

Shrilly crew the cock so watchful. 
Answering to the watch-dog's bay, 

In the moonlight and the midnight 
Of the middle of the May. 

Had the gates of Heaven been open 
We would then have passed them by. 

Well content with earthly pleasures, 
Mildred Jocelyn and I. 

I have seen the bees thick-flying, — 
Azure-winged and ringed with gold ; 

I have seen the sheep from washing 
Come back snowy to the fold ; 

And her hair was bright as bees are. 
Bees with shining golden bands ; 

And no wool was ever whiter 
Than her little dimpled hands. 

Oft we promised to be lovers, 

Howe'er fate our faith should try ; 

Giving kisses back for kisses, 
Mildred Jocelyn and I. 

Tears, sad tears, be stayed from falling ; 

Ye can bring no faintest ray 
From the moonlight and the midnight 

Of the middle of the May. 

If some friend would come and tell me, 
" On your Mildred's eyes so blue 

Grass has grown, but on her death-bed 
She was saymg prayers for you ; " 

Here beside the smooth white columns 
I should not so grieve to-day, 

For the moonlight and the midnight 
Of the middle of the May. 



MY FADED SHAWL 

Tell you a story, do you say ? 

Whatever my wits remember ? 
Well, going down to the woods one day 
Through the winds o' the wild No- 
vember, 
I met a lad, called Charley. 

We lived on the crest o'er the Krumley 
ridge, 
And I was a farmer's daughter. 
And under the hill by the Krumley 
bridge 
Of the crazy Krumley water. 
Lived this poor lad, Charley. 

Right well I knew his ruddy cheek, 
And step as light as a feather, 

Although we never were used to speak, 
And never to play together, 
I and this poor lad Charley. 

So, when I saw him hurrying down 
My path, will you believe me .-' 

I knit my brow to an ugly frown, — 
Forgive me, oh forgive me ! 
Sweet shade of little Charley. 

The dull clouds dropped their skirts of 
snow 
On the hills, and made them colder ; 
I was only twelve years old, or so, 
And may be a twelve-month older 
Was Charley, dearest Charley. 

A faded shawl, with flowers o' blue. 

All tenderly and fairly 
Enwrought by his mother's hand, I 
knew, 
He wore that day, my Charley, 
My little love, my Charley. 

His great glad eyes with light were lit 
Like the dewy light o' the morning; 

His homespun jacket, not a whit 
Less proudly, for my scorning, 
He wore, brave-hearted Charley. 

I bore a pitcher, — 't was our pride, — 
At the fair my father won it, 

And consciously I turned the side 
With the golden lilies on it. 
To dazzle the eyes o' Charley. 

This pitcher, and a milk-white loaf. 
Piping hot from the platter, 



BALLADS AND NARRATLVE POEMS. 



15 



When, where the path turned sharply 
off 
To the crazy Krumley water, 
I came upon my Charley. 

He smiled, — my pulses never stirred 

From their still and steady measures, 
Till the wind came flapping down like 
a bird 
And caught away my treasures. 
" Help me, O Charley ! Charley ! 

My loaf, my golden lilies gone ! " 

My heart was all a-flutter ; 
For I saw them whirling on and on 

To the frozen Krumley water, 
And then I saw my Charley, 

The frayed and faded shawl from his 
neck 
Unknot, with a quick, wise cunning, 
And speckled with snow-flakes, toss it 
back, 
That he might be free for running. 
My good, great-hearted Charley. 

I laid it softly on my arm, 

I warmed it in my bosom. 
And traced each broider-stitch to the 
form 
Of its wilding model blossom. 
For sake of my gentle Charley. 

Away, away ! like a shadow fleet ! 
The air was thick and blinding ; 
The icy stones were under his feet. 
And the way was steep and winding. 
Come back ! come back my Char- 
ley ! 

He waved his ragged cap in the air, 

My childish fears to scatter ; 
Dear Lord, was it Charley ? Was he 
there. 
On th' treacherous crust o' th' water ? 
No more ! 't is death ! my Char- 
ley. 

The thin blue glittering sheet of ice 
Bends, breaks, and falls asunder ; 
His arms are lifted once, and twice ! 
My God ! he is going under ! 

He is drowned ! he is dead ! my 
Charley. 

The wild call stops, — the blood runs 
chill ; 
I dash the tears from my lashes, 



And strain my gaze to th' foot o' th' 
hill,— 
Who flies so fast through the rushes ? 
My drowned love ? my Charley ? 

My brain is wild, — I laugh, I cry, — 

The chill blood thaws and rallies : 
What holds he thus, so safe and high ? 
My loaf ? and my golden lilies ? 
Charley ! my sweet, sweet Char^ 
ley! 

Across my mad brain word on word 
Of tenderness went whirling ; 

I kissed him, called him my little bird 
O' th' woods, my dove, my darling, — 
My true, true love, my Charley. 

In what sweet phrases he replied 
I know not now — no matter — 
This only, that he would have died 
In the crazy Krumley water 
To win my praise, — dear Char- 
ley ! 

He took the frayed and faded shawl, 

For his sake warmed all over, 
And wrapped me round and round with 
all 
The tenderness of a lover, — 
My best, my bravest Charley ! 

And when his shoes o' the snows were 
full,— 
Aye, full to their tops, — a-smiling 
He said they were lined with a fleece o' 
wool. 
The pain o' th' frost beguiling. 
Was ever a lad like Charley .' 

So down the slope o' th' Krumley 
ridge. 
Our hands locked fast together, 
And over the crazy Krumley bridge. 
We went through the freezing weath- 
er, — 
I and my drowned Charley. 

The corn fields all of ears were bare ; 
But the stalks, so bright and brittle,* 
And the black and empty husks were 
there 
For the mouths of the hungry cat- 
tle. 
We passed them, I and Charley. 

And passed the willow-tree that went 
With the wind, as light as a feather. 



1 6 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



And th' two proud oaks with their 
shoulders bent 
Till their faces came together, — 
Whispering, I said to Charley : 

The hollow sycamore, so white, 

The old gum, straight and solemn. 
With never the curve of a root in sight ; 
But set in the ground like a col- 
umn, — 
I, prattling to my Charley. 

We left behind the sumach hedge. 
And the waste of stubble crossing, 

Came at last to the dusky edge 
Of the woods, so wildly tossing, — 
I and my quiet Charley. 

Ankle-deep in the leaves we stood, — 
The leaves that were brown as leath- 
er 
And saw the choppers chopping the 
wood, — 
Seven rough men together, — 
I and my drooping Charley. 

I see him now as I saw him stand 
With my loaf — he had hardly won 
it — 
And the beautiful pitcher in his hand, 
With the golden lilies on it, — 
My little saint — my Charley. 

The stubs were burning here and there, 
The winds the fierce flames blowing, 
And the arms o' th' choppers, brown 
and bare. 
Now up, now down are going, — 
I turn to them from Charley. 

Right merrily the echoes ring 
From the sturdy work a-doing, 

And as the woodsmen chop, they sing 

Of the girls that they are wooing- 

O what a song for Charley ! 

This way an elm begins to lop. 
And that, its balance losing, 
And the squirrel comes from his nest 
in the top. 
And sits in the boughs a-musing. 
What ails my little Charley .' 

■The loaf from out his hand he drops, 

His eyelid flutters, closes ; 
He tries to speak, he whispers, stops, — 

His mouth its rose-red loses, — 
One look, just one, my Charley. 



And now his white and frozen cheeK 
Each wild-eyed chopper fixes. 

And never a man is heard to speak 
As they set their steel-blue axes, 
And haste to the help o' Charley ! 

Say, what does your beautiful pitchei 
hold >. 
Come tell us if you can, sir ! 
The chopper's question was loud and 
bold. 
But never a sign nor answer : 
All fast asleep was Charley. 

The stubs are burning low to th' earth, 

The winds the fierce flames flaring. 

And now to the edge of the crystal 

hearth 

The men in their arms are bearing 

The clay-cold body of Charley. 

O'er heart, o'er temple those rude hands 
go, 
Each hand as light as a brother's. 
As they gather about him in the snow, 
Like a company of mothers, — 
My dead, my darling Charley. 

Before them all (my heart grew bold,) 

From off my trembling bosom, 
I unwound the mantle, fold by fold. 
All for my blighted blossom, 

My sweet white flower, — my Char- 
ley. 

I have tokens large, I have tokens small 
Of all my life's lost pleasures, 

But that poor frayed and faded shawl 

Is the treasure of my treasures, — 

The first, last gift of Charley. 



OLD CHUMS. 

Is it you. Jack ? Old boy, is it really 
you? 
I should n't have known you but that 
I was told 
You might be expected ; — pray how do 
you do ? 
But what, under heaven, has made 
you so old .' 

Your hair ! why, you 've only a little 
gray fuzz ! 
And your beard 's white ! but that 
can be beautifully dyed ; 



BALLADS AND NARRATLVE POEMS. 



17 



And your legs are n't but just half as 
long as they was ; 
And then — stars and garters! your 
vest is so wide ! 

Is that your hand ? Lord, how I envied 
you that 
In the time of our courting, — so soft 
and so small. 
And now it is callous inside, and so 
fat,— 
Well, you beat the very old deuce, 
that is all. 

Turn round ! let me look at you ! is n't 
it odd, 
How strange in a few years a fellow's 
chum grows ! 
Your eye is shrunk up like a bean in a 
pod. 
And what are these lines branching 
out from your nose ? 

Your back has gone up and your shoul- 
ders gone down. 
And all the old roses are under the 
plough; 
Why, Jack, if we 'd happened to meet 
about town, 
I would n't have known you from 
Adam, I vow ! 

You 've had trouble, have you ? I 'm 
sorry ; but John, 
All trouble sits lightly at your time 
of life. 
How 's Billy, my namesake ? You don't 
say he 's gone 
To the war, John, and that you have 
buried your wife .'' 

Poor Katherine ! so she has left you — 
ah me ! 
I thought she would live to be fifty, 
or more. 
What is it you tell me ? She was fifty- 
three ! 
Oh no, Jack ! she was n't so much, by 
a score 1 

Well, there 's little Katy, — was that 
her name, John .-' 
She '11 rule your house one of these 
days like a queen. 
7%a/baby! good Lord! is she married 
and gone ? 
With a Jack ten years old ! and a 
Katy fourteen 1 



Then I give it up ! Why, you 'rt 
younger than I 
By ten or twelve years, and to think 
you 've come back 
A sober old gray beard, just ready to 
die! 
I don't understand how it is — do 
you. Jack .'' 

I 've got all my faculties yet, sound and 
bright ; 
Slight failure my eyes are beginning 
to hint ; 
But still, with my spectacles on, and a 
light 
'Twi.xt them and the page, I can read 
any print. 

My hearing is dull, and my leg is more 
spare, 
Perhaps, than it was when I beat you 
at ball ; 
My breath gives out, too, if I go up a 
stair, — 
But nothing worth mentioning, noth- 
ing at all ! 

My hair is just turning a little, you 
see, 
And lately I 've put on a broader- 
brimmed hat 
Than I wore at your wedding, but you 
will agree. 
Old fellow, I look all the better for 
that. 

I 'm sometimes a little rheumatic, 't is 
true. 
And my nose is n't quite on a straight 
line, they say ; 
For all that, I don't think I 've changed 
much, do you .' 
And I don't feel a day older, Jack, 
not a day. 



THE SHOEMAKER. 

Now the hickory with its hum 

Cheers the wild and rainy weather, 

And the shoemaker has come 

With his lapstone, last, and leather 

With his head as white as wool. 
With the wrinkles getting bolder, 

And his heart with news as full 
As the wallet on his shoulder. 



i8 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



How the children's hearts will beat, 
How their eyes will shine with pleas- 
ure 

As he sets their little feet, 

Bare and rosy, in his measure, 

And how, behind his chair, 

They will steal grave looks to sum- 
mon. 
As he ties away his hair 

From his forehead, like a woman. 

When he tells the merry news 

How their eyes will laugh and glisten, 

While the mother binds the shoes 
And they gather round and listen. 

But each one, leaning low 

• On his lapstone, will be crying, 

As he tells how little Jo, 

With a broken back is dying. 

Of the way he came to fall 
In the flowery April weather, 

Of the new shoes on the wall 
That are hanging, tied together. 

How the face of little Jo 

Has grown white, and they who love 
him 
See the shadows come and go, 

As if angels flew above him. 

And the old shoemaker, true 

To the woe of the disaster, 
W^ill uplift his apron blue 

To his eyes, then work the faster. 



TO THE WIND. 

Steer hither, rough old mariner, 

Keeping your jolly crew 
Beating about in the seas of life, — 

Steer hither, and tell me true 
About my little son Maximus, 

Who sailed away with you ! 

Seven and twenty years ago 

He came to us, — ah me! 
The snow that fell that whistling night 

Was not so pure as he, 
And I was rich enough, I trow. 

When I took him on my knee. 

I was rich enough, and when I met 
A man, unthrift and lorn. 



Whom I a hundred times had met 
With less of pity than scorn, 

I opened my purse, — it was well fol 
him 
That Maximus was bom ! 

We have five boys at home, erect 
And straight of limb, and tall, 

Gentle, and loving all that God 
Has made, or great or small, 

But Maximus, our youngest born, 
Was the gentlest of them all ! 

Yet was he brave, — they all are brave, 

Not one for favor or frown 
That fears to set his strength against 

The bravest of the town, 
But this, our little Maximus, 

Could fight when he was down. 

Six darling boys ! not one of all, 

If we had had to choose, 
Could we have singled from the rest 

To sail on such a cruise, 
But surely little Maximus 

Was not the one to lose ! 

His hair divided into slips, 

And tumbled every way, — 
His mother always called them curls, 

She has one to this day, — 
And th' nails of his hands were thin and 
red 

As the leaves of a rose in May. 

Steer hither, rough mariner, and bring 
Some news of our little lad, — 

If he be anywhere out of th' grave 
It will make his mother glad, 

Tho' he grieved her more with his way- 
wardness 
Than all the boys she had. 

I know it was against himself. 

For he was good and kind, 
That he left us, though he saw our eyes 

With tears, for his sake, blind, — 
Oh how can you give to such as he, 

Your nature, wilful wind ! 



LITTLE CYRUS. 

Emily Mayfteld all the day 
Sits and rocks her cradle alone. 

And never a neighbor comes to say 
How pretty little Cyrus has growa 




Emily Mayfield all the day 

Sils and rocks lier cradle alone." Page i8. 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



19 



Meekly Emily's head is hung, 
Many a sigh from her bosom breaks, 

And ne'er such pitiful tune was sung 
As that her lowly lullaby makes. 

Near where the village school-house 
stands, 

On the grass by the mossy spring, 
Merry children are linking hands, 

But little Cyrus is not in the ring. 

" They might make room for me, if they 
tried," 
He thinks as he listens to call and 
shout, 
And his eyes so pretty are open wide, 
Wondering why they have left him 
out. 

Nightly hurrying home they go, 

Each, of the praise he has had to 
boast ; 

But never an honor can Cyrus show, 
And yet he studies his book the most. 

Little Cyrus is out in the hay, — 

Not where the clover is sweet and red, 

With mates of his tender years at play. 
But where the stubble is sharp, in- 
stead, 

And every flowerless shrub and tree 
That takes the twinkling noontide 
heat. 

Is dry and dusty as it can be ; 
There with his tired, sunburnt feet 

Dragging wearily, Cyrus goes, 
Trying to sing as the others do. 

But never the stoutest liand that mows 
Says, " It is work too hard for you. 

Little Cyrus ; your hands so small 
Bleed with straining to keep your 
place. 
And the look that says I must bear it 
all 
Is sadder than tears in your childish 
face : 

So give me your knottv swath to mow. 
And rest a while on the shady sward. 

Else your body will crooked grow. 
Little Cyrus, from working hard." 

If he could listen to words like that. 
The stubble would not be half so 
rough 



To his naked feet, and his ragged hat 
Would shield him from sunshine well 
enough. 

But ne'er a moment the mowers check 
Song or whistle, to think of him. 

With Ijlisters burning over his neck. 
Under his straw hat's ragged brim. 

So, stooping over the field he goes. 
With none to pity if he complain, 

And so the crook in his body grows. 
And he never can stand up straight 
again. 

The cattle lie down in the lane so still, — 
The scythes in the apple-tree shine 
bright, 
And Cyrus sits on the ashen sill 

Watching the motes, in the streaks of 
light, 

Quietly slanting out of the sky, 
Over the hill to the porch so low^ 

Wondering if in the world on high 
There will be any briery fields to 
mow. 

Emily Mayfield, pale and weak, 

Steals to his side in the light so dim. 

And the single rose in his swarthy cheek 
Grows double, the while she says to 
him, — 

Little Cyrus, 't is many a day 

Since one with just your own sweet 
eyes, 
And a voice as rich as a bird's in May, 

(Gently she kisses the boy and sighs,) 

Here on the porch when the work was 
done, 
Sat with a young girl, (not like me,) 
Her heart was light as the wool she 
spun, 
And her laughter merry as it could 
be ; 

Her hair was silken, he used to say. 
When they sat on the porch-side, 
" woeful when," 
And I know the clover you mowed to- 
day 
Was no*^ more red than her cheeks 
were then. 

He told her many a storv wild. 
Like this, perhaps, which I tell to you, 



20 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



And she was a woman less than child 
And thought whatever he said was 
true. 

From home and kindred, — ah me, ah 
me ! 
With only her faith in his love, she 
fled, 
'T was all like a dreaming, and when 
she could see 
She owned she was sinful and prayed 
to be dead. 

But always, however long she may live, 
Desolate, desolate, she shall repine. 

And so with no love to receive or to 
give, _ 
Her face is as sad and as wrinkled as 



Little Cyrus, trembling, lays 

His head on his mother's knee to cry, 
And kissing his sunburnt cheek, she 
says, 

" Hush, my darling, it was not I." 



FIFTEEN AND FIFTY. 

Come, darling, put your frown aside ! 

I own my fault, 't is true, 't is true. 
There is one picture that I hide, 

Even away from you ! 

Why, then, I do not love you ? Nay, 
You wrong me there, my pretty one : 

Remember you are in your May ; 
My summer days are done, 

My autumn days are come, in truth, 
And blighting frosts begin to fall ; 

You are the sunny light of youth. 
That glorifies it all. 

Even when winter clouds shall break 
In storms, I shall not mind, my dear, 

For you within my heart shall make 
The springtime of the year ! 

In short, life did its best for me, 
When first our paths together ran ; 

But I had lived, you will agree, 
One life, ere yours began. 

I must have smiled, I must have wept. 
Ere mirth or moan could do you 
wrong ; 



But come, and see the picture, kept 
Hidden away so long ! 

The walk will not be strange nor far, — 
Across the meadow, toward the tree 

From whose thick top one silver star 
Uplifting slow, you see. 

So darling, we have gained the height 
Where lights and shadows softly 
meet ; 

Rest you a moment, — full in sight, 
My picture lies complete. 

A hill-side dark, with woods behind, 
A strip of emerald grass before, — 

A homely house ; some trees that blind 
Window, and wall, and door. 

A singing streamlet, either side 

Bordered with flowers, geraniums 
gay. 

And pinks, with red mouths open wide 
For sunshine, all the day. 

A tasseled corn field on one hand. 
And on the other meadows green. 

With angles of bright harvest bend 
Wedged sunnily between. 

A world of smiling ways and walks. 
The hop-vines twisting through the 
pales, 

The crimson cups o' the hollyhocks, 
The lilies, in white veils ; 

The porch with morning-glories gay. 
And sunken step, the well - sweep 
tall. 
The barn, with roof 'twixt black and 
gray. 
And warpt, wind-shaken wall ; 

The garden with the fence of stone. 
The lane so dusky at the close. 

The door-yard gate all overgrown 
With one wild smothering rose ; 

The honeysuckle that has blown 
His trumpet till his throat is red. 

And the wild swallow, mateless flown 
Under the lonesome shed ; 

The corn, with bean-pods showing 
through, 

The fields that to the sunset lean, 
The crooked paths along the dew, 

Telling of flocks unseen. 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



21 



The bird in scarlet-colored coat 
Flying about the apple-tree ; 

The new naoon in her shallow boat, 
Sailing alone, you see ; 

The aspen at the window-pane, — 
The pair of bluebirds on the peach, — 

The yellow waves of ripening grain, — 
You see them all and each. 

The shadows stretching to the door, 
From far-off hills, and nearer trees, 

I cannot show you any more, — 
The landscape holds but these. 

And yet, my darling, after all 
'T is not 7ny picture you behold ; 

Your house is ruined near to fall, — 
Your flowers are dew and mould. 

I wish that you could only see. 

While the glad garden shines its best, 

The little rose that was to me 
The queen of all the rest. 

The bluebirds, — he with scarlet 
wjngs, — 

The silver brook, the sunset glow, 
To me are but the signs of things 

The landscape cannot show. 

That old house was our home — not 
ours ! 
You were not born — how could it 
be? 
That window where you see the flowers, 
Is where she watched for me. 

So pale, so patient, night by night, 
Her eyes upon this pathway here. 

Until at last I came in sight, — 
Nay, do not frown, my dear, 

That was another world ! and so 
Between us there can be no strife ; 

I was but twenty, you must know. 
And she my baby-wife ! 

Twin violets by a shady brook 

Were like her eyes, — their beaute- 
ousness 

Was in a rainy, moonlight look 
Of tears and tenderness. 

Her fingers had a dewy touch •, 
Grace was in all her modest ways ; 

Forgive my praising her so nmch, — 
She cannot hear my praise. 



Beneath the window where you see 
The trembling, tearful flowers, she lay, 

Her arms as if they reached for me, — 
Her hair put smooth away. 

The closed mouth still smiling sweet. 
The waxen eyelids, drooping low, 

The marriage-slippers on the feet, — 
The marriage-dress of snow ! 

And still, as in my dreams, I do, 

I kiss the sweet white hands, the eyes t 

My heart with pain is broken anew, 
My soul with sorrow dies. 

It was, they said, her spirit's birth, ^ 
That she was gone, a saint to be ; 

Alas ! a poor, pale piece of earth 
Was all that I could see. 

In tears, my darling ! that fair brow 
With jealous shadows overrun .'' 

A score of flowers upon one bough 
May bloom as well as one ! 

This ragged bush, from spring to fall 
Stands here with living glories lit; 

And every flower a-blush, with all 
That doth belong to it ! 

Look on it ! learn the lesson then, — 
No more than we evoke, is ours ! 

The great law holdeth good with men. 
The same as with the flowers. 

And if that lost, that sweet white hand 
Had never blessed me with its light. 

You had not been, you understand, 
More than you are to-night. 

This foolish pride that women have 
To play upon us, — to enthrall. 

To absorb, doth hinder what they 
crave, — 
Their being loved at all ! 

Never the mistress of the arts 
They practice on us, still again 

And o'er again, they wring our hearts 
With pain that giveth pain ! 

They make their tyranny a boast, 
And in their petulance will not see 

That he is always bound the most. 
Who in the most is free ! 

They prize us more for what they screen 
From censure, than for what is best j 



22 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



And you, my darling, at fifteen, 
Why, you are like the rest ! 

Your arms would find me now, though I 
Were low as ever guilt can fall ; 

And that, my little love, is why 
I love you, after all ! 

Smiling ! " the pain is worth the cost, 
That wins a homily so wise ? " 

Ah, little tyrant, I am lost. 
When thus you tyrannize. 



JENNY DUNLEATH. 

Jenny Dunleath coming back to the 

town ? 
What ! coming back here for good, and 

for all ? 
Well, that 's the last thing for Jenny to 

do, — 
I 'd go to the ends of the earth, — 

wouldn't you ? 
Before I 'd come back ! She '11 be 

pushed to the wall. 
Some slips, I can tell her, are never 

lived down, 
And she ought to know it. It 's really 

true. 
You think, that she 's coming ? How 

dreadfully bold ! 
But one don't know what will be done, 

nowadays, 
And Jenny was never the girl to be 

moved 
By what the world said of her. What 

she approved. 
She would do, in despite of its blame 

or its praise. 
She ought to be wiser by this time — 

let 's see ; 
Why, sure as you live, she is forty 

years old ! 
The day I was married she stood up 

with me. 
And my Kate is twenty : ah yes, it must 

be 
That Jenny is forty, at least — forty- 
three. 
It may be, or four. She was older, I 

know, 
A good deal, when she was bridesmaid, 

than I, 
And that 's twenty years, now, and 

longer, ago ; 
So if she intends to come back and deny 



Her age, as 't is likely she will, I can 

show 
The plain honest truth, by the age of 

my Kate, 
And I will, too ! To see an old maid 

tell a lie. 
Just to seem to be young, is a thing that 

I hate. 

You thought we were friends ? No, my 

dear, not at all ! 
'T is true we were friendly, as friendli- 
ness goes, 
But one gets one's friends as one 

chooses one's clothes. 
And just as the fashion goes out, lets 

them fall. 
I will not deny we were often together 
About the time Jenny was in her high 

feather ; 
And she was a beauty ! No rose of the 

May 
Looked ever so lovely as she on the 

day 
I was married. She, somehow, could 

grace 
Whatever thing touched her. The knots 

of soft lace 
On her little white shoes, — the gay cap 

that half hid 
Her womanly forehead, — the bright 

hair that slid 
Like sunshine adown her bare shoul- 
ders, — the gauze 
That rippled about her sweet arms, just 

because 
'T was Jenny that wore it, — the flower 

in her belt, — 
No matter what color, 'twas fittest, you 

felt. 
If she sighed, if she smiled, if she 

played with her fan, 
A sort of religious coquettishness ran 
Through it all, — a bewitching and wil- 

dering way, 
All tearfully tender and graciously gay. 
If e'er you were foolish in word or in 

speech. 
The approval she gave with her serious 

eyes 
Would make your own foolishness seem 

to you wise ; 
So all from her magical presence, and 

each. 
Went happy away : 't was her art to 

confer 
A self-love, that ended in your loving 

her. 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



23 



A.nd so she is coming back here ! a 

mishap 
To her friends, if she have any friends, 

one would say. 
Well, well, she can't take her old place 

in the lap 
Of holiday fortune : her head must be 

gray; 
And those dazzling cheeks ! I would 

just like to see 
How she looks, if I could without her 

seeing me. 

To think of the Jenny Dunleath that I 

knew, 
A dreary old maid with nobody to love 

her, — 
Her hair silver-white and no roof-tree 

above her, — 
One ought to have pity upon her, — 

't is true ! 
But I never liked her ; in truth. I was 

glad 
In my own secret heart wiien she came 

to her fall ; 
When praise of her meekness was ring- 
ing the loudest 
I always would say she was proud as 

the proudest ; 
That meekness was only a trick that 

she had, — 
She was too proud to seem to be proud, 

that was all. 

She stood up with me, I was saying : 

that day 
Was the last of her going abroad for 

long years ; 
I never had seen her so bright and so gay, 
Yet, spite of the lightness, I had my 

own fears 
That all was not well with her : 't was 

but her pride 
Made her sing the old songs when they 

asked her to sing. 
For when it was done with, and we 

were aside, 
A look wan and weary came over her 

brow. 
And still I can feel just as if it were 

now, 
How she slipped u]) and down on my 

finger, the ring. 
And so hid her face in my bosom and 

cried. 

When the fiddlers were coma and 
young Archibald Mill 



Was dancing with Hetty, I saw how it 

was ; 
Nor was I misled when she said she 

was ill. 
For the dews were not standing so thick 

in the grass 
As the drops on her cheeks. So you 

never have heard 
How she fell in disgrace with young 

Archibald ! No .' 
I won't be the first, then, to whisper a 

word, — 
Poor thing! if she only repent, let it go! 

Let it go ! let what go ? My good 

madam, I pray, 
Whereof do I stand here accused.' I 

would know, — 
I am Jenny Dunleath, that you knew 

long ago, 
A dreary old maid, and unloved, as you 

say : 
God keep you, my sister, from knowing 

such woe ! 
Forty years old, madam, that I agree, 
The roses washed out of my cheeks by 

the tears ; 
And counting my barren and desolate 

years 
By the bright little heads dropping over 

your knee. 
You look on my sorrow with scorn, it 

appears. 
Well, smile, if you can, as you hold up 

in sight 
Your matronly honors, for all men to 

see ; 
But I cannot discern, madam, what 

there can be 
To move your proud mirth, in the wild- 

ness of night 
Falling round me ; no hearth for m) 

coming alight, — 
No rosv-red cheeks at the windows foi 

me. 

My love is my shame, — in your love 

you are crowned, — 
But as we are women, our natures are 

one ; 
By need of its nature, the dew and the 

sun 
Beiong to the poorest, pale flower o' the 

ground. 
And think you that He who created the 

heart 
Has struck it all helpless and hopeless 

apart 



24 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



From these lesser works ? Nay, I hold 

He has bound 
Our rights with our needs in so sacred 

a knot, 
We cannot undo them with any mere lie ; 
Nay, more, my proud lady, — the love 

you have got, 
May belong to another as dreary as I ! 
You have all the world's recognition, — 

your bond, — 
But have you that better right, lying 

beyond ? — 
Agreement with Conscience ? — that 

sanction whereby 
You can live in the face of the crudest 

scorns ? 
Aye, set your bare bosom against the 

sharp thorns 
Of jealousy, hatred, — against all the 

harms 
Bad fortune can gather, — and say. 

With these arms 
About me, I stand here to live and to 

die! 
I take you to keep for my patron and 

saint, 
And you shall be bound by that sweet- 
est constraint 
Of a liberty wide as the love that you 

give ; 
And so to the glory of God we will live, 
Through health and through sickness, 

dear lover and friend. 
Through light and through darkness, — 

through all, to the end ! 

Let it go ! Let what go ? Make me 

answer, I pray. 
You were speaking just now of some 

terrible fall, — 
My love for young Archibald Mill, — is 

that all ? . 
I loved him with all my young heart, as 

you say, — 
Nay, what is more, madam, I love him 

to-day, — 
My cheeks thin and wan, and my hair 

gray on gray ! 
And so I am bold to come back to the 

town, 
In hope that at last I may lay my bones 

down. 
And have the green grasses blow over 

my face, 
Among the old hills where my love had 

its birth ! 
If love were a trifle, the morning to 

grace, 



And fade when the night came, why, 
what were it worth ? 

He is married ! and I am come hither 

too late ? 
Your vision misleads you, — so pray 

you, untie 
That knot from your sweet brow, — I 

come here to die. 
And not make a moan for the chances 

of fate ! 
I know that all love that is true is di- 
vine, 
And when this low incident, Time, shall 

have sped, 
I know the desire of my soul shall be 

mine, — 
That, weary, or wounded, or dying, or 

dead. 
The end is secure, so I bear the 

estate — 
Despised of the world's favored women 

— and wait. 



TRICKSEY'S RING. 

WHAT a day it was to us, — 
My wits were upside down. 

When cousin Joseph Nicholas 
Came visiting from town ! 

His curls they were so smooth and 
bright. 
His frills they were so fine, 

1 thought perhaps the stars that night 
Would be ashamed to shine. 

But when the dews had touched the 
grass, 

They came out, large and small. 
As if our cousin Nicholas 

Had not been there at all ! 

Our old house never seemed to me 

So poor and mean a thing 
As then, and just because that he 

Was come a-visiting ! 

I never thought the sun prolonged 

His light a single whit 
Too much, till then, nor thought he 
wronged 

My face, by kissing it. 

But now I sought to pull my dress 
Of faded homespun down, 



BALLADS AND NARRATLJ^E POEMS. 



25 



Because my cousin Nicholas 
Would see my feet were brown. 

The butterflies — bright airy things — 

From off the lilac buds 
I scared, for having on their wings 

The shadows of the woods. 

I thought my straight and jet black hair 

Was almost a disgrace, 
Since Joseph Nicholas had fair 

Smooth curls about his face. 

I wished our rosy window sprays 
Were laces, dropping down, 

That he might think we knew the ways 
Of rich folks in the town. 

I wished the twittering swallow had 

A finer tune to sing, 
Since such a stylish city lad 

Was come a-visiting. 

I wished the hedges, as they swayed, 

Were each a solid wall, 
And that our grassy lane were made 

A market street withal. 

I wished the drooping heads of rye, 

Set full of silver dews, 
Were silken tassels all to tie 

The ribbons of his shoes ! 

And when, by homely household slight. 
They called me Tricksey True, 

I thought my cheeks would blaze, in 
spite 
Of all that I could do. 

Tricksey ! — that name would surely be 

A shock to ears polite ; 
In short I thought that nothing we 

Could say or do was right. 

For injured pride I could have wept, 

Until my heart and I 
Fell musing how my mother kept 

So equable and high. 

She did not cast her eyelids down. 

Ashamed of being poor ; 
To her a gay young man from town, 

Was no discomfiture. 

She reverenced honor's sacred laws 
As much, aye more than he, 

A.nd was not ]nit about because 
He had more gold than she ; 



But held her house beneath a hand 

As steady and serene, 
As though it were a palace, and 

As though she were a queen. 

And when she set our silver cup 

Upon the cloth of snow, 
For Nicholas, I lifted up 

My timid eyes, I know ; 

And saw a ring, as needs I must, 
Upon his finger shine ; 

how I longed to have it just 
A minute upon mine ! 

1 thought of fairy folk that led 
Their lives in sylvan shades. 

And brought fine things, as I had read, 
To little rustic maids. 

And so I mused within my heart. 
How I would search about 

The fields and woodlands, for my part. 
Till I should spy them out. 

And so when down' the western sky 
The sun had dropped at last. 

Right softly and right cunningly 
From out the house I passed. 

It was as if awake I dreamed, 

All Nature was so sweet 
The small round dandelions seemed 

Like stars beneath my feet. 

Fresh greenness as I went along 
The grass did seem to take. 

And birds beyond the time of song 
Kept singing for my sake. 

The dew o'erran the lily's cup. 

The ground-moss shone so well, 
That if the sky were down or up, 

Was hard for me to tell. 

I never felt my heart to sit 

So lightly on its throne ; 
Ah, who knew what would come 
of it. 

With fairy folk alone ! 

An hour, — another hour went by, 

All harmless arts I tried. 
And tried in vain, and wearily 

My hopes within me died. 

No tent of moonshine, and no ring 
Of dancers could I find. — 



26 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



The fairy rich folk and their king 
For once would be unkind ! 

My spirit, nameless fear oppressed ; 

My courage went adrift, 
As all out of the low dark west 

The clouds began to lift. 

I lost my way within the wood, — 
The path I could not guess. 

When, Heaven be praised, before me 
stood 
My cousin Nicholas ! 

Right tenderly within his arm 
My shrinking hand he drew ; 

He spoke so low, "these damps will 
harm 
My little Tricksey True." 

I know not how it was : my shame 
In new delight was drowned ; 

His accent gave my rustic name 
Almost a royal sound. 

He bent his cheek against my face, — 

He whispered in my ear 
" Why came you to this dismal place ? 

Tell me, my little dear ! " 

Betwixt the boughs that o'er us hung 

The light began to fall ; 
His praises loosed my silent tongue, — 

At last I told him all. 

I felt his lips my forehead touch ; 

I shook and could not stand ; 
The ring I coveted so much 

Was shining on my hand ! 

We talked about the little elves 

And fairies of the grove. 
And then we talked about ourselves, 

And then we talked of love. 

'T was at the ending of the lane, — 

The garden yet to pass, 
I offered back his ring again 

To my good Nicholas. 

" Dear Tricksey, don't you understand, 

You foolish little thing," 
He said, " tliat I must have the hand. 

As well as have the ring .'' " 



"To-night — just now! I 
wait ! 
The hand is little worth ! " 



pray you 



" Nay darling — now ! we 're at the 
gate ! " 
And so he had them both ! 



CRAZY CHRISTOPHER. 

Neighbored by a maple wood, 
Dim and dusty, old and low ; 

Thus our little school-house stood, 
Two and twenty years ago. 

On the roof of clapboards, dried 
Smoothly in the summer heat, 

Of the hundred boys that tried, 
Never one could keep his feet. 

Near the door the cross-roads were, 
A stone's throw, perhaps, away. 

And to read the sign-board there, 
Made a pastime every day. 

He who turned the index down. 

So it pointed on the sign 
To the nearest market-town. 

Was, we thought, a painter fine : 

And the childish wonder rose, 
As we gazed with puzzled looks 

On the letters, good as those 
Printed in our spelling-books. 

Near it was a well, — how deep ! 

With its bucket warped and dry. 
Broken curb, and leaning sweep, 

And a plum-tree growing by. 

Which, with low and tangly top. 
Made the grass so bright and cool, 

Travelers would sometimes stop. 
For a half-hour's rest — in school. 

Not an eve could keep the place 
Of the lesson then, — intent 

Each to con the stranger's face, 
And to see the road he went. 

Scattered are we far and wide, — ■ 
Careless, curious children then ; 

Wanderers some and some have died 
Some, thank God, are honest men. 

But, as playmates, large or small, 
Noisv, thoughtful, or demure, 

I can see them, one and all. 
The great world in miniature. 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



27 



Common flowers, with common names, 
Filled the woods and meadows round : 

Dandelions with their flames 

Smoothed flat against the ground ; 

Mullein stocks, with gray braids set 
Full of yellow ; thistles speared ; 

Violets, purple near to jet ; 

Crowfoot, and the old-man's-beard. 

And along the dusty way. 

Thick as prints of naked feet, 

Iron-weeds and fennel gay 

Blossomed in the summer heat. 

Hedges of wild blackberries, 
Pears, and honey-locusts tall, 

Spice-wood, and " good apple-trees," 
Well enough we knew them all. 

But the ripest blackberries. 

Nor the mulleins topped with gold, 
Peach nor honey-locust trees. 

Nor the flowers, when all are told. 

Pleased us like the cabin, near 

Which a silver river ran, 
And where lived, for many a year, 

Christopher, the crazy man. 

Hair as white as snow he had. 
Mixing with a beard that fell 

Down his breast ; if he were mad. 
Passed our little wits to tell. 

In his eyes' unfathomed blue 

Burned a ray so clear and bright. 

Oftentimes we said we knew 
It would shame the candlelight. 

Mystic was the life he led ; 

Picking herbs in secret nooks, — 
Finding, as the old folks said, 

"Tongues in trees and books in 
brooks." 

Waking sometimes in the gloom 
Of the solemn middle night, 

He had seen his narrow room 
Full of angels dressed in white ; 

So he said in all good faith, 
And one day with tearfu! eve, 

Fold us that he heard old Death 
Sharpening his scythe, close by. 

Whether it were prophecy, 
Or a dream, I cannot say ; 



But good little Emily 

Died the evening of that day. 

In the woods, where up and down 
We had searched, and only seen 

Adder's-tongue, with dull, dead brown, 
Mottled with the heavy green ; 

May-apples, or wild birds sweet. 
Going through the shadows dim, 

Spirits, with white, noiseless feet. 
Walked, he said, and talked with 
him. 

" What is all the toiling for, 

And the spinning .'' " he would say ; 

" .See the lilies at my door, — 
Never dressed a queen as they. 

" He who gives the ravens food 
For our wants as well will care ; 

O my children ! He is good, — 
Better than your fathers are." 

So he lived from year to year, 
Never toiling, mystery-clad, — 

Spirits, if they did appear, 
Being all the friends he had. 

Alternating seasons sped, 

And there fell no night so rough, 

But his cabin lire, he said. 

Made it light and warm enough. 

Soft and slow our steps would be. 

As the silver river ran. 
Days when we had been to see 

Christopher, the crazy man. 

Soft and slow, to number o'er 
The delights he said he had ; 

Wondering always, more and more. 
Whether he were wise or mad. 

On a hill-side next the sun, 

Where the school-boys quiet keep. 

And to seed the clovers run, 
He is lying, fast asleep. 

But at last (to Heaven be praise), 

Gabriel his bed will find, 
Giving love for lonely days. 

And for visions, his right mind. 

Some''imes, when I think about 
How he lived among the flowers, 

Gently going in and out. 

With no cares nor fretful hours, — 



28 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



Of the deep serene of light, 

In his blue, unfathomed eyes, — 

Seems the childish fancy right, 
That could half believe him wise. 



THE FERRY OF GALEA WAY. 

In the stormy waters of Gallaway 
My boat had been idle the livelong day. 
Tossing and tumbling to and fro, 
For the wind was high and the tide was 
low. 

The tide was low and the wind was 

high, 
And we were heavy, my heart and I, 
For not a traveler all the day 
Had crossed the ferry at Gallaway. 

At set o' th' sun, the clouds outspread 
Like wings of darkness overhead. 
When, out o' th' west, my eyes took 

heed 
Of a lady, riding at full speed. 

The hoof-strokes struck on the flinty 

hill 
Like silver ringing on silver, till 
I saw the veil in her fair hand float. 
And flutter a signal for my boat. 

The waves ran backward as if 'ware 
Of a presence more than mortal fair. 
And my little craft leaned down and 

lay 
With her side to th' sands o' th' Galla- 
way. 

" Haste, good boatman ! haste ! " she 
cried, 

" And row me over the other side ! " 

And she stript from her finger the shin- 
ing ring, 

And gave it me for the ferrying. 

" Woe 's me ! my Lady, I may not go, 
For the wind is high and th' tide is low, 
And rocks like dragons lie in the 

wave, — 
Slip back on your finger the ring you 

gave ! " 

" Nay, nay ! for the rocks will be melted 

down, 
A.nd the waters, they never will let me 

drown. 



And the wind a pilot will prove to thee, 
For my dying lover, be waits for me ! " 

Then bridle-ribbon and silver spur 
She put in my hand, but I answered 

her : 
" The wind is high and the tide is low, — 
I must not, dare not, and will not go ! " 

Her face grew deadly white with pain, 
And she took her champing steed by 

th' mane. 
And bent his neck to th' ribbon and spur 
That lay in my hand, — but I answered 

her : 

" Though you should proffer me twice 

and thrice 
Of ring and ribbon and steed, the 

price, — 
The leave of kissing your lily-like hand I 
I never could row you safe to th' land." 

" Then God have mercy ! " she faintly 

cried, 
" For my lover is dying the other side ! 
O cruel, O cruellest Gallaway, 
Be parted, and make me a path, I 

pray ! " 

Of a sudden, the sun shone large and 

bright 
As if he were staying away the night, 
And the rain on the river fell as sweet 
As the pitying tread of an angel's feet. 

And spanning the water from edge to 

edge 
A rainbow stretched like a golden 

bridge, 
And I put the rein in her hand so fair. 
And she sat in her saddle, th' queen o' 

th' air. 

And over the river, from edge to edge, 
She rode on the shifting and shimmer- 
ing bridge. 
And landing safe on the farther side, — 
" Love is thy conqueror. Death ! " she 
cried. 



REVOLUTIONARY STORY. 

" Good mother, what quaint legend are 
you reading, 
In that old-fashioned book .'' 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



29 



Beside your door I 've been this half- 
hour pleading 
All vainly for one look. 

" About your chair the little birds fly 
bolder 
Than in the woods they fly, 
With heads dropt slantwise, as if o'er 
your shoulder 
They read as they went by ; 

''Each with his glossy collar ruffling 
double 

Around his neck so slim, 
Even as with that atmosphere of trouble, 

Through which our blessings swim. 

" Is it that years throw on us chillier 
shadows, 
The longer time they run, 
That, with your sad face fronting yon- 
der meadows, 
You creep into the sun ? 

" I '11 sit upon the ground and hear 
your story." 
Sadly she shook her head. 
And, pushing back the thin, white veil 
of glory 
'Twixt her and heaven, she said : 

" Ah ! wondering child, I knew not of 
your pleading ; 
My thoughts were chained, indeed. 
Upon my book, and yet what you call 
reading 
I have no skill to read. 

" There was a time once when I had a 
lover : 
Why look you in such doubt ? 
True, I am old now — ninety years and 
over : " 
A crumpled flower fell out 

From 'twixt the book-leaves. " Seventy 
years they 've pressed it : 
'T was like a living flame. 
When he that plucked it, by the pluck- 
ing blessed it ; " 
I knew the smile that came, 

And flickered on her lips in wannish 
splendor. 
Was lighted at that flower. 
For even yet its radiance, faint and 
tender, 
Reached to its primal hour. 



" God bless you ! seventy years since it 
was gathered .'' " 
" Aye, I remember well ; " 
And in her old hand, palsy-struck, and 
withered. 
She held it up to smell. 

"And is it true, as poets say, good 
mother. 

That love can never die ? 
And that for all it gives unto another 

It grows the richer .? " " Aye, 

" The white wall-brier, from spring till 
summer closes. 
All the great world around, 
Hangs by its thorny arms to keep its 
roses 
From off the low, black ground ; 

" And love is like it : sufferings but try 
it ; 
Death but evokes the might 
That all, too mighty to be thwarted by 
it, 
Breaks througn mto the light." 

" Then frosty age may wrap about its 
bosom 
The light of fires long dead ? " 
Kissing the piece of dust she called a 
blossom, 
She shut the book, and said : 

" You see yon ash-tree with its thick 
leaves, blowing 
The blue side out .'' (Great Power, 
Keep its head green !) My sweetheart, 
in the mowing 
Beneath it found my flower. 

" A mile off all that day the shots were 
flying. 
And mothers, from the door. 
Looked for the sons, who, on their faces 

lying. 
Would come home never more. 

" Across the battle-field the dogs went 
whining ; 
I saw, fron; where I stood. 
Horses with quivering flanks, and 
strained eyes, shining 
Like thin skins full of blood. 



Brave fellows we had then 

my neighbor, — 
The British lines he saw ; 



there was 



30 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



Took his old scythe and ground it to a 
sabre, 
And mowed them down like straw ! 

" And there were women, then, of giant 
spirit, — 
Nay, though the blushes start. 
The garments their degenerate race in- 
herit 
Hang loose about the heart. 

" Where was I, child ? how is my story 
going ? " 
" Why, where by yonder tree 
With leaves so rough your sweetheart, 
in the mowing, 
Gathered your flower ! " " Ah me ! 

" My poor lad dreamed not of the red- 
coat devil, 

That, just for pastime, drew 
To his bright epaulet his musket level. 

And shot him through and through. 

" Beside him I was kneeling the next 
minute ; 
From the red grass he took 
The shattered hand up, and the flower 
was in it 
You saw within my book." 

" He died." " Then you have seen 
some stormy weather ? " 
" Aye, more of foul than fair ; 
And all the snows we should have 
shared together 
Have fallen on my hair." 

" And has your life been worth the liv- 
ing, mother. 
With all its sorrows .'' " " Aye, 
I 'd live it o'er again, were there no 
other. 
For this one memory." 

I answered soft, — I felt the place was 
holy — 
One ma.xim stands approved : 
" They know the best of life, however 
lowly, 
Who ever have been loved." 



THE DAUGHTER. 

Alack, it is a dismal night — 
In gusts of thin and vapory light 



The moonshine overbloweth quite 
The fretful bosom of the storm, 
That beats against, but cannot harm 
The lady, whose chaste thoughts do 

charm 
Better than pious fast or prayer 
The evil spells and sprites of air — 
In sooth, were she in saintly care 
Safer she could not be than now 
With truth's white crown upon hel 

brow — 
So sovereign, innocence, art thou. 
Just in the green top of a hedge 
That runs along a valley's edge 
One star has thrust a golden wedge. 
And all the sky beside is drear — 
It were no cowardice to fear 
If some belated traveler near, 
To visionary fancies born. 
Should see upon the moor, forlorn. 
With spiky thistle burs and thorn ; 
The lovely lady silent go. 
Not on a " palfrey white as snow," 
But with sad eyes and footsteps slow ; 
And softly leading by the hand 
An old man who has nearly spanned, 
With his white hairs, life's latest sand. 
Hope in her faint heart newly thrills 
As down a barren reach of hills 
Before her fly two whippoorwills ; 
But the gray owl keeps up his wail — 
His feathers ruffled in the gale. 
Drowning almost their dulcet tale. 
Often the harmless flock she sees 
Lying white along the grassy leas. 
Like lily-bells weighed down with bees. 
And now and then the moonlight snake 
Curls up its white folds for her sake. 
Closer within the poison brake. 
But still she keeps her lonesome way. 
Or if she pauses, 't is to say 
Some word of comfort, else to pray. 
What doth the gentle lady here 
Within a wood so dark and drear. 
Nor hermit's lodge nor castle near .' 
See in the distance robed and crowned 
A prince with all his chiefs around. 
And like sweet light o'er sombre 

ground 
A meek and lovely lady, there 
Proffering her earnest, piteous prayer 
For an old man with silver hair. 
But what of evil he hath done, 
O'erclouding beauty's April sun, 
I know not — nor if lost or won, 
The lady's pleading, svi'eet and low — 
About her pilgrimage of woe, 
Is all that I shall ever know. 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



31 



THE MIGHT OF LOVE. 

" There is work, good man, for you to- 
day ! " 
So the wife of Jamie cried, 
" For a ship at Garl'ston, on Solway, 
Is beached, and her coal 's to be got 
away 
At the ebbing time of tide." 

'• And, lassie, would you have me start, 

And make for Solway sands .'' 
You know that I, for my poor part. 
To help me, have nor horse nor cart — 
I have only just my hands ! " 

" But, Jamie, be not, till ye try, 
Of honest chances balked ; 
For, mind ye, man, I '11 prophesy 
That while the old ship's high and dry 
Her master '11 have her calked." 

And far and near the men were pressed, 
As the wife saw in her dreams. 

"Aye," Jamie said, "she Jpew the 
best," 

As he went under with the rest 
To calk the open seams. 

And while the outward-flowing tide 

Moaned like a dirge of woe. 
The ship's mate from the beach-belt 

cried : 
" Her hull is heeling toward the side 
Where the men are at work be- 
low ! " 

And the cartmen, wild and open-eyed. 

Made for the Solway sands — 
Men heaving men like coals aside. 
For now it was the master cried : 

" Run for your lives, all hands ! " 

Like dead leaves in the sudden swell 

Of the storm, upon that shout. 
Brown hands went fluttering up and 

fell, 
As, grazed by the sinking planks, pell 
mell 
The men came hurtling out ! 

Thank God, thank God, the peril 's 
past ! 

" No ! no ! " with blanching lip. 
The master cries. " One man, the last. 
Is caught, drawn in, and grappled fast 

Betwixt the sands and the ship ! " 



" Back, back, all hands ! Get what you 
can — 

Or pick, or oar, or stave." 
This way and that they breathless ran, 
And came and fell to, every man. 

To dig him out of his grave ! 

" Too slow ! too slow ! The weight 
will kill ! 

Up make your hawsers fast ! " 
Then every man took hold with a will — - 
A long pull and a strong pull — still 

With never a stir o' th' mast ! 

" Out with the cargo ! " Then they go 
At it with might and main. 

" Back to the sands ! too slow, too slow ! 

He 's dying, dying ! yet, heave ho ! 
Heave ho ! there, once ag^n ! " 

And now on the beach at Garl'ston 
stood 
A woman whose pale brow wore 
Its love like a queenly crown ; and the 

blood 
Ran curdled and cold as she watched 
the flood 
That was racing in to the shore. 

On, on it trampled, stride by stride. 

It was death to stand and wait ; 
And all that were free threw picks aside. 
And came up dripping out o' th' tide. 

And left the doomed to his fate. 

But lo ! the great sea trembling stands ; 

Then, crawling under the ship, 
As if for the sake of the two white 

hands 
Reaching over the wild, wet sands, 

Slackened that terrible grip. 

" Come to me, Jamie ! God grants the 
way," 
She cries, "for lovers to meet." 
And the sea, so cruel, grew kind, they 

say. 
And, wrapping him tenderly round with 
spray. 
Laid him dead at her feet. 



" THE GRACE WIFE OF KEITH." 

No whit is gained, do you say to me. 
In a hundred years, nor in two noi 
three, 
In wise things, nor in holy — 



32 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



No whit since Bacon trod his ways, 
And William Shakespeare wrote his 
plays ! 
Aye, aye, the world moves slowly. 

But here is a lesson, man, to heed ; 

I have marked the pages, open and read ; 

We are yet enough unloving. 
Given to evil and prone to fall, 
But the record will show you, after all, 

That still the world keeps moving. 

All in the times of the good King 

James — 
I have marked the deeds and their 
doers' names. 
And over my pencil drawing — 
One Geillis Duncan standeth the first 
For helping of " anie kinde sick " ac- 
cursed, 
And doomed, without trial, to " thraw- 



Read of her torturers given their scope 
Of wrenching and binding her head 
with a rope, 
Of taunting her word and her honor, 
And of searching her body sae pure and 

fair 
From the lady-white feet to the gouden 
hair 
For the wizard's mark upon her ! 

Of how through fair coaxings and ago- 
nies' dread 

She came to acknowledge whatever they 
said, 

And, lastly, her shaken wits losing, 

To prattle from nonsense and blas- 
phemies wild 

To the silly entreaties and tears of a 
child. 
And then to the fatal accusing. 

First naming Euphemia Macalzean, 
A lord's young daughter, and fair as a 
queen ; 
Then Agnes, whose wisdom surpassed 
her ; 
" Grace Wyff of Keith," so her sentence 

lies, 
" Adjudged at Holyrood under the eyes 
Of the King, her royal master." 

Oh, think of this Grace wife, fine and 

tall. 
With a witch's bridle tied to the wall ! 
Her peril and pain enhancing 



With owning the lie that on Hallowmas 

Eve 
She with a witch crew sailed in a sieve 
To Berwick Church, for a dancing ! 

Think of her owning, through brain- 
sick fright 
How Geillis a Jew's-harp played that 
night, 
And of Majesty sending speedy 
Across the border and far away 
For that same Geillis to dance and play. 
Of infernal news made greedy ! 

Think of her true tongue made to tell 
How she had raised a dog from a well 

To conjure a Lady's daughters : 
And how she had gript him neck and 

skin, 
And, growling, thrust him down and in 

To his hiding under the waters ! 

How Rob the Rower, so stout and 

brave, 
Helped her rifle a dead man's grave, 

And how, with enchantments arming. 
Husbands false she had put in chains. 
And gone to the beds of women in pains 
And brought them through by charm- 
ing ! 

Think of her owning that out at sea 
The Devil had marked her on the knee, 

And think of the prelates round hei 
Twitching backward their old gray hairs 
And bowing themselves to their awful 
prayers 

Before they took her and bound her ! 

The world moves ! Witch-fires, say 

what you will. 
Are lighted no more on the Castle Hill 

By the breath of a crazy story ; 
Nor are men riven at horses' tails, 
Or done to death through pincered nails, 

In the name of God and his glory. 

The world moves on ! Say what ycu can. 
No more may a maiden's love for a num. 

Into scorn and hatred turning, 
Wrap him in rosin stiff and stark, 
And roll him along like a log in its bark 

To the place of fiery burning. 

And such like things were done in the 

days 
When one Will ShakespearR wrote his 

plays ; 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



33 



And when Bacon thought, for a won- 
der : 
And when Luther had hurled, at the 

Spirit's call, 
Inkstand, Bible, himself, and all 
At the head of the Papal thunder. 



JOHNNY RIGHT. 

Johnny Right, his hand was brown, 

And so was his honest open face, 

For the sunshine kissed hina up and 

down, 

But Johnny counted all for grace ; 

And when he looked in the glass at 

night 
He said that brown was as good as 
white ! 

A little farm our Johnny owned, 

Some pasture-fields, both green and 
good, 

A bit of pleasant garden ground, 
A meadow, and a strip of wood. 

" Enough for any man," said John, 

" To earn his livelihood upon ! " 

Two oxen, speckled red and white, 
And a cow that gave him a pail of 
milk. 

He combed and curried morn and night 
Until their coats were as soft as silk. 

"Cattle on all the hills," said he, 

" Could give no more of joy to me." 

He never thought the world was wrong 
Because rough weather chanced a 
day ; 
" The night is always hedged along 

With daybreak roses," he would say ; 
He did not ask for manna, but said, 
" Give me but strength — I will get the 
bread ! " 

Kindly he took for good and all 

Whatever fortune chanced to bring, 
A.nd he never wished that spring were 
fall, 
And he never wished that fall were 
spring ; 
But set the plough with a joy akin 
To the joy of putting the sickle in. 

lie never stopped to sigh " Oho ! " 
Because of the ground he needs must 
till, 



For he knew right well that a man must 

sow 
Before he can reap, and he sowed 

with a will ; 
And still as he went to his rye-straw 

bed, 
" Work brings the sweetest of rest," he 

said. 

Johnny's house was little and low, 
And his fare was hard ; and that was 
why 

He used to say, with his cheeks aglow, 
That he must keep his heart up high : 

Aye, keep it high, and keep it light ! 

He used to say — wise Johnny Right ! 

He never fancied one was two ; 

But according to his strength he 

planned, 
And oft to his Meggy would say he 

knew 
That gold was gold, and sand was 

sand ; 
And that each was good and best in its 

place. 
For he counted everything for grace. 

Now Meggy Right was Meggy Wrong, 

For things with her went all awry ; 
She always found the day too long 
Or the day too short, and would mope 
and sigh ; 
For, somehow, the time and place that 

were, 
Were never the time and place for her ! 

" O Johnny, Johnny ! " she used to say. 
If she saw a cloud in the sky at morn, 

" There will be a hurricane to-day ; " 
Or, " The rain will come and drench 
the corn ! " 

And Johnny would answer with a smile, 

" Wait, dear Meggy, wait for a while ! " 

And often before an ear was lost, 

Or a single hope of the harvest gone. 

She would cry, " Suppose there should 

fall a frost. 

What should we do then, John, O 

John!" 

And Johnny would answer, rubbing his 

thumbs, 
" Wait, dear Meggy, wait till it comes ! " 

But when she saw the first gray hair. 
Her hands together she wrung and 
wrung, 



34 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



And cried, in her wicked and weak de- 
spair, 
" Ah, for the day when we both were 
young ! " 
And Johnny answered, kissing her brow, 
" Then was then, Meg — now is now ! " 

And when he spectacles put on. 

And read at ease the paper through, 
She whimpered, "Oh, hard-hearted 
John, 
It is n't the way you used to do ! " 
And Johnny, wiser than wiser men. 
Said, " Now is now, Meg — then was 
then ! " 

So night and day, with this and that, 

She gave a bitter to all the bliss. 
Now for Johnny to give her a hat. 
And now for Johnny to give her a 
kiss, 
Till, patience failing, he cried, " Peg, 

Peg! 
You 're enough to turn a man's head, 
Meg ! " 

Oh, then she fell into despair — 

No coaxing could her temper mend ; 

For her part now she did n't care 
How soon her sad life had an end. 

And Johnny, sneering, made reply, 

" Well, Meg, don't die before you die ! " 

Then foolish Meg began to scold, 
And call her Johnny ugly names ; 

She wished the little farm was sold. 
And that she had no household claims. 

So that she might go and starve or 
beg, 

And Johnny answered, " O Meg, Meg ! " 

Ah, yes, she did — she did n't care ! 

That were a living to prefer ; 
What had she left to save despair ? 

A man that did n't care for her ! 
Indeed, in truth she 'd rather go ! 
" Don't, Meg," says Johnny, " don't say 



She left his stockings all undarned, 
She set his supper for him cold ; 

And every day she said she yearned 
To have the hateful homestead sold. 

She could n't live, and would n't try ! 

John only answered with a sigh. 

Passing the tavern one cold night, 
Says Johnny, " I 've a mind to stop, 



It looks so cheery and so bright 
Within, and take a little drop. 
And then I '11 go straight home to Meg." 
There was the serpent in the egg. 

He stopped, alas, alas for John. 

That careless step foredoomed his fall 
Next year the little farm was gone, — 

Corn fields and cattle, house and all ; 
And Meggy learned too late, too late, 
Her own self had evoked her fate. 



THE SETTLER'S CHRISTMAS 
EVE. 

In a patch of clearing, scarcely more 
Than his brawny double hands. 

With woods behind and woods before, 
The Settler's cabin stands ; 

A little, low, and lonesome shed. 

With a roof of clapboards overhead. 

Aye, low, so low the wind-warped eave 
Hangs close against the door ; 

You might almost stretch a bishop's 
sleeve 
From the rafter to the floor ; 

And the window is not too large, a whit, 

For a lady's veil to curtain it. 

The roof-tree's bent and knotty knees 

By the Settler's axe are braced, 
And the door-yard fence is three felled 
trees 
With their bare arms interlaced ; 
And a grape-vine, shaggy and rough 

and red, 
Swings from the well-sweep's high, 
sharp head. 

And among the stubs, all charred and 
black. 
Away to the distant huts, 
Winds in and out the wagon-track, 

Cut full of zigzag ruts : 
And down and down to the sluggish 

])ond. 
And through and up to the swamps 
beyond. 

And do you ask beneath such thatch 
What heart or hope may be ? 

Just pull the string of the wooden latch. 
And see what you shall see : 

A hearth -stone broad and warm and 
wide, 

With master and mistress either side. 



BALLADS AND NARRA TIVE POEMS. 



35 



A.nd 'twixt them, in the radiant glow, 

Prattling of Christmas joys, 
With faces in a shining row. 

Six children, girls and boys ; 
And in the cradle a head half-hid 
By the shaggy wolf-skin coverlid. 

For the baby sleeps in the shaded light 

As gently as a lamb, 
And two little stockings, scarlet bright. 

Are hanging 'gainst the jamb ; 
And the yellow cat lies all of a curl 
In the lap of a two-years' blue-eyed girl. 

On the dresser, saved for weeks and 
weeks, 
A hamper of apples stands, 
And some are red as the children's 
cheeks, 
And some are brown as their hands ; 
For cakes and apples must stead, you 

see. 
The rich man's costlier Christmas-tree. 

A clock that looks like a skeleton. 
From the corner ticks out bold ; 

And that never was such a clock to run 
You would hardly need be told. 

If you were to see the glances proud 

Drawn toward it when it strikes so 
loud. 

The Settler's rifle, bright and brown. 

Hangs high on the rafter-hooks. 
And swinging a hand's breadth lower 
down 
Is a modest shelf of books ; 
Bible and Hymn-book, thumbed all 

through, 
" Baxter's Call," and a novel or two. 

« Peter Wilkins," " The Bloody Hand," 

" The Sailor's Bride and Bark," 
"Jerusalem and the Holy Land," 

" The Travels of Lewis and Clarke ; " 
Some tracts : among them, " The Milk- 
maid's Fall," 
" Pleasure Punished," and " Death at a 
Ball." 

A branch of sumach, shining bright. 

And a stag-horn, deck the wall, 
With a string of birds'-eggs, blue and 
white, 
Beneath. But after all, 
Vou will say the six little heads in a row 
By the hearth-stone make the prettiest 
show. 



The boldest urchin dares not stir ; 

But each heart, be sure, rebels 
As the father taps on the newspaper 

With his brass-bowed spectacles; 
And knitting-needle with needle clicks 
As the mother waits for the politics. 

He has rubbed the glass and rubbed 
the bow. 
And now is a fearful pause : 
"Come, Molly!" he says, " come Sue, 
come Joe, 
And I '11 tell you of Santa Claus ! " 
How the faces shine with glad surprise. 
As if the souls looked out of the eyes. 

In a trice the dozen ruddy legs 

Are bare ; and speckled and browm 
And blue and gray, from the wall-side 

peg 
The stockings dangle down ; 
And the baby with wondering eyes, 

looks out 
To see what the clatter is all about. 

"And what will Santa Claus bring?" 
they tease, 
" And, say, is he tall and fair ? " 
While the younger climb the good man's 
knees, 
And the elder scale his chair ; 
And the mother jogs the cradle, and 

tries 
The charm of the dear old lullabies. 

So happily the hours fly past, 
'T is pity to have them o'er ; 

But the rusty weights of the clock, at 
last 
Are dragging near the floor ; 

And the knitting-needles, one and all, 

Are stuck in the round, red knitting-ball. 

Now, all of a sudden the father twirls 

The empty apple-plate ; 
" Old Santa Claus don't like his girls 

And boys to be up so late ! " 
He says, " And I 'II warrant our star- 
faced cow, 
He 's waiting astride o' the chimney 
now." 

Down the back of his chair they slide, 
They slide down arm and knee : 

" If Santa Claus is indeed outside. 
He shan't be kept for me ! " 

Cry one and all ; and away they go. 

Hurrying, flurrying, six in a row. 



36 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



In the mother's eyes are happy tears 
As she sees them flutter away ; 

''My man," she says, " it is sixteen 3'ears 
Since our blessed wedding-day ; 

And I would n't think it but just a 
year 

If it was n't for all these children here." 

And then they talk of what they will 
do 
As the years shall come and go ; 
Of schooling for little Molly and Sue, 

And of land for John and Joe ; 
And Dick is so wise, and Dolly so 

fair, 
"They," says the mother, "will have 
luck to spare ! " 

" Aye, aye, good wife, that 's clear, 
that's clear ! " 

Then, with eyes on the cradle bent, 
" And what if he in the wolf-skin here 

Turned out to be President ? 
Just think ! Oh, would n't it be fine, — 
Such fortune for your boy and mine ! " 

She stopped — her heart with hope 
elate — 
And kissed the golden head : 
Then, with the brawny hand of her 
mate 
Folded in hers, she said : 
" Walls as narrow, and a roof as low. 
Have sheltered a President, you know." 

And then they said they would work 
and wait, 
The good, sweet-hearted pair — 
You must have pulled the latch-string 
straight. 
Had you in truth been there. 
Feeling that you were not by leave 
At the Settler's hearth that Christmas 
Eve. 



THE OLD STORY. 

The waiting-women wait at her feet. 

And the day is fading into the night. 
And close at her pillow, and round and 
sweet. 
The red rose burns like a lamp alight. 
And under and over the gray mists 
fold ; 
And down and down from the mossy 
eaves, 



And down from the sycamore's long 
wild leaves 
The slow rain droppeth so cold, so cold. 

Ah ! never had sleeper a sleep so fair ; 
And the waiting women that weep 
around, 
Have taken the combs from her golden 
hair, 
And it slideth over her face to the 
ground. 
They have hidden the light from hei 
lovely eyes ; 
And down from the eaves where the 

mosses grow 
The rain is dripping so slow, so slow, 
And the night wind cries and cries and 
cries. 

From her hand they have taken the 
shining ring, 
They have brought the linen her 
shroud to make : 
Oh, the lark she was never so loath to 
sing, 
And the morn she was never so loath 
to awake ! 
And at their sewing they hear the 
rain, — 
Drip-drop, drip-drop over the eaves, 
And drip-drop over the sycamore 
leaves. 
As if there would never be sunshine 
again. 

The mourning train to the grave have 
gone. 
And the waiting women are here and 
are there, 
With birds at the windows, and gleams 
of the sun, 
Making the chamber of death to be 
fair. 
And under and over the mist unlaps, 
And ruby and amethyst burn through 

the gray, 
And driest bushes grow green with 
spray. 
And the dimpled water its glad hands 
claps. 

The leaves of the sycamore dance and 
wave, 
And the mourners put off the mourn- 
ing shows ; 
And over the pathway down to the grave 
The long grass blows and blows and 
blows. 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



17 



And every drip-drop rounds to a flower, 
And love in the heart of the young 

man springs, 
And the hands of the maidens shine 
with rings. 
As if all life were a festival hour. 



BALDER'S WIFE. 

Her casement like a watchful eye 

From the face of the wall looks 
down, 
Lashed round with ivy vines so dry, 

And with ivy leaves so brown. 
Her golden head in her lily hand 

Like a star in the spray o' th' sea. 
And wearily rocking to and fro. 
She sings so sweet and she sings so 
low 

To the little babe on her knee. 
But let her sing what tune she may, 

Never so light and never so gay, 
It slips and slides and dies away 

To the moan of the willow water. 

Like some bright honey-hearted rose 

That the wild wind rudely mocks, 
She blooms from the dawn to the day's 
sweet close 

Hemmed in with a world of rocks. 
The livelong night she doth not stir, 

But keeps at her casement lorn, 
And the skirts of the darkness shine 
with her 

As they shine with the light o' the 
morn 
And all who pass may hear her lay, 

But let it be what tune it may. 
It slips and slides and dies away 

To the moan of the willow water. 

And there, within that one-eyed tower. 

Lashed round with the ivy brown. 
She droops like some unpitied flower 

That the rain-fall washes down : 
The damp o' th,' dew in her golden 
hair. 

Her cheek like the spray o' th' sea, 
And wearily rocking to and fro 
She sings so sweet and she smgs so 
low 

To the little babe on her knee. 
But let her sing what tune she may, 

Never so glad and never so gay, 
It slips and slides and dies away 

To the moan of the willow water 



AT REHEARSAL. 

Cousin Kit MacDonald, 
I've been all the day among 

The places and the faces 

That we knew when we were young ; 

And, like a hope that shineth down 
The shadow of its fears, 

1 found this bit of color on 
The groundwork of the years. 

So with words I tried to paint it, 
All so merry and so bright — 

And here, my Kit MacDonald, 
Is the picture light on light. 

It was night — the cows were stabled, 
And the sheep were in their fold. 

And our garret had a double roof — 
Pearl all across the gold. 

The winds were gay as dancers — 
We could hear them waltz and whirl 

Above the roof of yellow pine. 
And the other roof of pearl. 

We had gathered sticks from the snow- 
drift, 

And now that the fire was lit. 
We made a ring about the hearth 

And watched for you, dear Kit. 

We planned our pleasant pastimes, 

But never a game begun — 
For Cousin Kit was the leader 

Of all the frolic and fun. 

With moss and with bark, for his sake, 
The fire we strove to mend — 

For the fore-stick, blazing at middle, 
Was frosty at either end ; 

But after all of the blowing 

Till our cheeks were puffed and red. 
No warm glow lighted the umber 

Of the rafters overhead ; 

And after all of the mending. 
We could not choose but see 

That the little low, square window 
Was as dark as dark could be. 

The chill crep*: in from our fingers 
Till our hearts grew fairly numb — 

Oh, what if he should n't see the light, 
And what if he should n't come ! 



^8 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



Then pale-cheeked little Annie, 
With a hand behind her ear 

Slipt out of the ring and listened 
To learn if his step were near ; 

And Philip followed, striding 
Through the garret to and fro — 

To show us that our Cousin Kit 
Was marching through the snow ; 

While Rose stood all a-tiptoe, 
With face to the window pressed, 

To spy him, haply, over the hill. 
And tell the news to the rest. 

And at last there was shout and laugh- 
ter. 

And the watching all was done — 
For Kit came limping and whimpering. 

And the playing was begun. 

" A poor old man, good neighbors. 
Who has nearly lost his sight. 

Has come," he said, " to eat your bread. 
And lodge by your fire to-night. 

" I have no wife nor children, 
And the night is bitter cold ; 

And you see (he showed the snow on 
his hair) — 
You see I am very old ! " 

" We have seen your face too often, 

Old Mr. Kit," we said ; 
" How comes it that you 're houseless — 

And why are you starved for bread .'' 

" Because you were thriftless and lazy. 
And would not plough nor sow ; 

And because you drank at the tavern — 
Ah ! that is why, you know ! 

" We don't give beggars lodging, 
And we want our fire and bread ; 

And so good-day, and go your way. 
Old Mr. Kit," we said. 

Then showing his ragged jacket, 

He said that his money was spent — 

And said he was old, and the night was 
cold. 
And with body doubly bent 

He reached his empty hat to us. 

And then he wiped his eve. 
And said he had n't a friend in the 
world 

That would give him room to die. 



" But it was n't for you," we answered, 
" That our hearth to-night was lit." 

And so we turned him out o' the 
house, — 
O Kit, my Cousin Kit ! 



As I sit here painting over 

The night, and the fire, and the sno'H 
And all your boyish make-believe 

In that garret rude and low. 

My heart is broken within me, 
For my love must needs allow 

That you were at the rehearsal then 
Of the part you are playing now. 



THE FISHERMAN'S WIFE. 

Peace ! for my brain is on the rack ! 
Peace of your idle prattling, John ! 
Ere peep o' daylight he was gone : 
And my thoughts they run as wild and 

black 
As the clouds in the sky, from fear to fear. 
Mother o' mercy ! would he were here — 
Oh ! would that he only were safely 

here — 
Would that I knew he would ever come 

back ! 
Yet surely he will come anon ; 
Let 's see — the clock is almost on 
The stroke o' ten. Even ere it strike, 
His hand will be at the latch belike. 
Set up his chair in the corner, John, 
Add a fresh log, and stir the coals : 
We can afford it, I reckon, yet. 
The night is chilly and wild and wet, 
And all the fishers' wives, poor souls. 
Must watch and wait ! There are other- 
where 
Burdens heavy as mine to bear, 
Though not so bitter. It was my fret 
And worry that sent him to his boat. 
Here, Johnny, come kneel down by me, 
And pray the best man keep afloat 
That ever trusted his life at sea ! 
So : let your pretty head be bowed. 
Like a stricken flower, upon my knee ; 
And when you come to the sweet. 

sweet word 
Of best, my little one — my bird, 
Say it over twice, and say it loud. 
I do not dare to lift my eyes 
To our meek Master in the skies ; 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



39 



For it was my wicked pride, alas ! 
That brought me to the heavy pass 
Of weary waiting and listening sad 
To the winds as they drearily drift and 

drive. 
So pray in your praying for me, my lad ! 
Oh ! if he were there in the chair you 

set, 
With never a silvery fish in his net, 
I 'd be the happiest woman alive ! 

But he will come ere long, I know : 
Here, Johnny, put your hand in mine, 
And climb up to my shoulder — so : 
Upon the cupboard's highest shelf 
You '11 see a bottle of good old wine — 
I pressed the berry-juice myself. 
Ah ! how it sparkles in the light, 
To make us loath to break the seal ; 
But though its warm red life could feel, 
We would not spare it — not to-night ! 

Another hour ! and he comes not yet : 
And I hear the long waves wash the 

beach. 
With the moan of a drowning man in 

each, 
And the star of hope is near to set. 
The proudest lady in all the land 
That sits in her chamber fine and high. 
That sits in her chamber large and 

grand, 
I would not envy to-night — not I — 
If I had his cold wet locks in my hand, 
To make them warm and to make them 

dry. 
And to comb them with my fingers free 
From the clinging sea-weed and the 

sand 
Washing over them, it may be. 
Ah ! how should I envy the lady fair 
W'ith white arms hidden in folds of 

lace. 
If my dear old fisher were sitting there, 
His pipe in his hand, and his sunbrown 

face 
Turning this way and that to me, 
As I broiled the salmon and steeped 

the tea, 
O empty heart ! and O empty chair ! 
My boy, my Johnny, say over your 

prayer ; 
And straight to the words I told you 

keep, 
Till you pass the best man out on the 

deep, 
And then say this : If thou grantest, 

Lord, 



That he come back alive, and with fish 

in his net, 
The church shall have them for her re- 
ward. 
And we, of our thankfulness, will set 
A day for fasting and scourge and pain. 
Hark ! hark to the crazy winds again ! 
The tide is high as high can be, 
The waters are boiling over the bar. 
And drawing under them near and far 
The low black land. Ah me ! ah me ! 
I can only think of the mad, mad sea ; 
I can only think, and think, and think 
How quickly a foundered boat would 

sink. 
And how soon the stoutest arms would 

fail. 
'T is all of my worry and all of my fret, 
For I brewed the bitter draught I drink : 
I teased for a foolish, flimsy veil. 
And teased and teased for a spangled 

gown. 
And to have a holiday in the town. 
There was only just one way, one way, 
And he mended his net and trimmed 

his sail. 
And trusted his life to the pitiless sea, 
My dear old fisher, for love of me, 
When a better wife would have said 

him nay ; 
And so mv folly forlorn I bewail. 
Hark ! Midnight ! All the hearth is 

dim 
And cold ; but sure we need not strive 
To keep it warm and bright for him — 
He never will come back alive. 
I hear the crack of masts a-strain. 
As the mad winds rush madly on. 
Kneel down and say yet once again 
The prayer I told you a while ago ; 
And be not loud, my boy, my John — 
Nay, it befits us to be low — 
Nor yet so straight to the wording 

keep. 
As I did give you charge before : 
The best man ever was on the deep 
Pray for ; and say the best twice o'er. 
But when through our blessed Re- 
deemer you say 
The sweet supplication for him that 's 

away. 
That saints bring him back to us saved 

from ill. 
Add this to the Father : If so be Thy 

will. 
And I, lest again my temptation assail, 
Will yield to my chast'ning, and cover 
up head 



40 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



With blackness of darkness, instead of 

the veil 
I pined for in worry and pined for in 

fret, 
Till my good man was fain to be gone 

with his net 
Where but the winds scolded. Now 

get from your knees, 
For I, from the depths of contrition, 

have said 
The Amen before you. And we '11 to 

the seas : 
Belike some kind wave may be wash- 
ing ashore. 
With coils of rope and salt sea-weed, 

some sign 
To be as a letter sent out of the brine 
To tell us the last news — to say if he 

struck 
On the rocks and went down — but 

hush ! breathe not, my lad. 

sweet Lord of Mercy ! my brain is 

gone mad ! 
Or that was the tune that he whistles 

for luck ! 
Run ! run to the door ! open wide — 

wider yet ! 
He is there ! — he is here ! and my 

arms are outspread ; 

1 am clasping and kissing his hands 

rough and brown. 
Are you living ? or are you the ghost of 

my dead ? 
'T is all of my worry and all of my 

fret ; 
Ashamed in his bosom I hung down 

my head. 
He has been with his fishes to sell in 

the town, 
For I see, snugly wrapt in the folds of 

his net, 
The hindering veil and the spangled 

new gown. 



MAID AND MAN. 

All in the gay and golden weather, 
Two fair traveleis, maid and man. 

Sailed in a birchen boat together, 

And sailed the way that the river 
ran : 

The sun was low, not set, and the west 

Was colored like a robin's breast. 

The moon was moving sweetly o'er them. 
And her shadow, in the waves afloat, 



Moved softly on and on before them 
Like a silver swan, that drew their 
boat : 
And they were lovers, and well content, 
Sailing the way the river went. 

And these two saw in her grassy bower 
As they sailed the way the river run, 

A little, modest, slim-necked flower 
Nodding and nodding up to the sun, 

And they made about her a little song 

And sung it as they sailed along : 

"■ Pull down the grass about your bosom, 
Nor look at the sun in the royal sky, 

'T is dangerous, dangerous, little blos- 
som. 
You are so low, and he is so high — 

'T is dangerous nodding up to him. 

He is so bright, and you are so dim ! " 

Sweetly over, and sadly under. 

They turned the tune as they sailed 
along. 
And they did not see the cloud, for a 
wonder. 
Break in the water, the shape of the 
swan ; 
Nor yet, for a wonder, see at all 
The river narrowing toward the fall. 

" Be warned, my beauty — 't is not the 
fashion 
Of the king to wed with the waiting- 
maid — 
Wake not from sleep his fiery passion, 
But turn your red cheek into the 
shade — 
The dew is a-tremble to kiss your eyes — 
And there is but danger in the skies ! " 

Close on the precipice rang the ditty, 
But they looked behind them, and 

not before. 
And went down singing their doleful 

pity 
About the blossom safe on the 

shore — 
" There is danger, danger ! frail one, 

list!" 
Backward whirled in the whirling mist 



THE DOUBLE SKEIN. 

Up ere the throstle is out of the thorn, 
Or the east a-blush with a rosy break. 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



41 



For she wakens earlier now of a morn j 
Earlier now than she used to wake, 
Such troublous moanings the sea- 
waves make. 

She leans to her distaff a weary brow, 
And her cheeks seem ready the flax 
to burn, 
And the wheel in her hand turns heavier 
now ; 
Heavier now than it used to turn. 
When strong hands helped her the 
bread to earn. 

She lists to the school-boy's laugh and 

shout, 
And her eyes have the old expectant 

gleam ; 
And she draws the fine thread out and 

out, 
Till it drags her back from her tender 

dream, 
And wide and homeless the world 

doth seem. 

Over the fields to the sands so brown, 
And over the sands to the restless 
tides 
She looks, and her heart tilts up and 
down ; 
Up and down with the boat as it rides, 
And she cries, " God steady the hand 
that guides ! " 

She watches the lights from the sea- 
cliffs go, 
Bedazed with a wonder of vague sur- 
prise. 
For the sun seems now to be always low, 
And never to rise as he used to rise — 
The gracious glory of land and skies. 

She shrinks from the pattered plash of 
the rain. 
For it taps not now as it used to do. 
Like a tearful Spirit of Love at the pane, 
And the gray mist sweeping across 

the blue 
Never so lightly, chills her through. 

So spins she ever a double skein, 

And the thread on her finger all eyes 
may see. 
But the other is spun in her whirling 
brain 
And out of the sea-fog over the sea, 
For still with its treasure the heart 
will be. 



SELFISH SORROW. 

The house lay snug as a robin's nest 

Beneath its sheltering tree. 
And a field of flowers was toward the 
west, 
And toward the east the sea. 
Where a belt of weedy and wet black 

sand 
Was always pushing in to the land, 

And with her face away from the sun 
And toward the sea. so wild. 

The grandam sat, and spun and spun. 
And never heeded the child, 

So wistfully waiting beside her chair, 

More than she heeded the bird of the 



Fret and fret, and spin and spin. 
With her face the way of the sea : 

And whether the tide were out or in, 
A-sighing, " Woe is me ! " 

In spite of the waiting and wistful eyes 

Pleading so sweetly against the sighs. 

And spin, spin, and fret, fret, 
And at last the day was done. 

And the light of the fire went out and 
met 
The light o' the setting sun. 

" It will be a stormy night — ah me ! " 

Sighed the grandam, looking at the 



" Oh, no, it is n't a-going to rain ! " 
Cries the dove-eyed little girl. 

Pressing her cheek to the window-pane 
And pulling her hair out of curl. 

But the grandam answered with a sigh. 

Just as she answered the cricket's cry, 

" If it rains, let it rain ; we shall not 
drown ! " 
Says the child, so glad and gay ; 
" The leaves of the aspen are blowing 
down ; 
A sign of fair weather, they say ! " 
And the grandam moaned, as if the sea 
Were beating her life out, " Woe is 
me ! " 

The heart of the dove-eyed little girl 

Began in her throat to rise, 
And she says, pulling golden curl upon 
curl 

All over her face and her eyes. 



42 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



* I wish we were out of sight of the 

sea ! " 
And the grandam answered, " Woe is 

me !" 

The sun in a sudden darkness slid. 

The winds began to plain, 
And all the flowery field was hid 

With the cold gray mist and the rain. 
Then knelt the child on the hearth so 

low. 
And blew the embers all aglow. 

On one small hand so lily white 

She propped her golden head, 
And lying along the rosy light 
She took her book and read : 
And the grandam heard her laughter 

low, 
As she rocked in the shadows to and 
fro. 

At length she put her spectacles on 
And drew the book to her knee : 
" And does it tell," she said, " about 
John, 
My lad, who was lost at sea ? " 
" Why, no," says the child, turning face 

about, 
" 'T is a fairy tale ; shall I read it out ? " 

The grandam lowlier bent upon 
The page as it lay on her knee : 

"No, not if it doesn't tell about John," 
She says, " who was lost at sea." 

And the little girl, with a saddened face. 

Shut her hair in the leaves to keep the 
place. 

And climbing up and over the chair, 
The way that her sweet heart led, 
She put one arm, so round and fair, 

Like a crown, on the old gray head. 
" So, child," says the grandam — keep- 
ing on 
With her thoughts — "your book does 
n't tell about John .^ " 

" No, ma'am, it tells of a fairy old 
Who lived in a daffodil bell. 

And who had a heart so hard and cold 
That she kept the dews to sell ; 

And when a butterfly wanted a drink. 

How much did she ask him, do you 
think?" 

" O foolish child, I cannot tell, 
May be a crown, or so." 



" But the fairy lived in a daffodil bell, 
And could n't hoard crowns, you 

know ! " 
And the grandam answered — hei 

thought joined on 
To the old thought — "Not a word 

about John t " 

" But grandam " — " Nay, for pity's 
sake 
Don't vex me about your crown, 
But say if the ribs of a ship should break 

And the ship's crew all go down 
Of a night like this, how long it would 
take 
For a strong-limbed lad to drown ! " 

" But, grandam " — " Nay, have done," 
she said, 
" With your fairy and her crown ! 
Besides, your arm upon my head 

Is heavy ; get you down ! " 
" O ma'am, I'm so sorry to give you a 

pain ! " 
And the child kissed the wrinkled face 
time and again. 

And then she told the story through 

Of the fairy of the dell. 
Who sold God's blessed gift of the 
dew 
When it was n't hers to sell, 
And who shut the sweet light all away 
With her thick black wings, and pined 
all day. 

And how at last God struck her blind. 

The grandam wiped a tear, 
And then she said, " I should n't mind 

If you read to me now, my dear ! " 
And the little girl, with a wondering 

look, 
Slipped her golden hair from the leaves 
of the book. 

As the grandam pulled her down to her 

knee, 
And pressed her close in her arm. 
And kissing her, said, " Run out and 

see 
If there is n't a lull in the storm ! 
I think the moon, or at least some 

star, 
Must shine, and the wind grows faint 

and far." 

Next day again the grandam spun, 
And oh, how sweet were the hours f 




'My lad who was lost at sea." See p. 42 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



43 



For she sat at the window toward the 

sun, 
And next the field of flowers, 
And never looked at the long gray sea. 
Nor sighed for her lad that was lost, 

" Ah me ! " 



THE EDGE OF DOOM. 

Heart-sick, homeless, weak, and weary, 

On the edge of doom she stands. 
Fighting back the wily Tempter 

With her trembling woman's hands. 
On her lip a moan of pleading. 

In her eyes a look of pain. 
Men and women, men and women, 

Shall her cry go up in vain ? 

On the edge of doom and darkness — 

Darker, deeper than the grave — 
Off with pride, that devil's virtue ! 

While there yet is time to save, 
Clinging for her life, and shrinking 

Lower, lower from your frown : 
Men and women, men and women. 

Will you, can you, crowd her down ? 

On that head, so early faded, 

Pitiless the rains have beat ; 
Famine down the pavements tracked her 

By her bruised and bleeding feet. 
Through the years, sweet old Naomi, 

Lead her in the gleaners' way ; 
Boaz, oh, command your young men 

To reproach her not, 1 pray. 

Face to face with shame and insult 

Since she drew her baby-breath. 
Were it strange to find her knocking 

At the cruel door of death ? 
Were it strange if she should parley 

With the great arch-fiend of sin .-" 
Open wide, O gates of mercy. 

Wider, wider ! — let her in ! 

Ah ! my proud and scornful lady, 

Lapped in laces fair and fine. 
But for God's good grace and mercy 

Such a fate as hers were thine. 
Therefore, breaking combs of honey, 

Breaking loaves of snowy bread, 
If she ask a crumb, I charge you 

Give her not a stone instead. 

Never lullaby, sung softly, 
Made her silken cradle stir ; 



Never ring of gay young playmates 
Opened to make room for her ! 

Therefore, winds, sing up your sweet- 
est. 
Rocking lightly on the leaves ; 

And, O reapers, careless reapers. 
Let her glean among your sheaves ! 

Never mother, by her pillow. 

Knelt and taught her how to say, 
Lead me not into temptation, 

Give me daily bread this day. 
Therefore, reapers, while the cornstalks 

To your shining sickles lean. 
Drop, oh drop some golden handfuls — ■ 

Let her freely come and glean ! 

Never mellow furrows crumbled 

Softly to her childish tread — 
She but sowed in stony places. 

And the seed is choked and dead. 
Therefore, let her rest among you 

When the sunbeams fiercely shine — 
Barley reapers, let her with you 

Dip her morsel in the wine ! 

And entreat her not to leave you 

When the harvest week is o'er. 
Nor depart from following after, 

Even to the threshing-floor. 
But when stars through fields of shadovj 

Shepherd in the evening gray. 
Fill her veil with beaten measures, 

Send her empty not away. 

Then the city round about her. 

As she moveth by, shall stir 
As it moved to meet Naomi 

Home from famine — yea, for her ! 
And the Lord, whose name is Mercy, 

Steadfast by your deed shall stand, 
And shall make her even as Rachel, 

Even as Leah, to the land. 



THE CHOPPER'S CHILD. 

A STORY FOR THANKSGIVING DAY. 

The smoke of the Indian Summer 

Darkened and doubled the rills. 
And the ripe corn, like a sunset, 

Shimmered along the hills ; 
Like a gracious glowing sunset, 

Interlaced with the rainbow light 
Of vanishing wings a-trai!ing 

And trembling out of sight ; 



44 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



As, with tlie brier-buds gleaming 

In her darling, dimpled hands, 
Toddling slow adown the sheep-paths 

Of the yellow stubble-lands — 
Her sweet eyes full of the shadows 

Of the woodland, darkly'brovvn — 
Came the chopper's little daughter, 

In her simple hood and gown. 

Behind her streamed the splendors 

Of the oaks and elms so grand. 
Before her gleamed the gardens 

Of the rich man of the land ; 
Gardens about whose gateways 

The gloomy ivy swayed, 
Setting all her heart a-tremble 

As she struck within their shade. 

Now the chopper's lowly cabin 

It lay nestled in the wood. 
And the dwelling of the rich man 

By the open highway stood. 
With its pleasant porches facing 

All against the morning hills. 
And each separate window shining 

Like a bed of daffodils. 

Up above the tallest poplars 

In its stateliness it rose. 
With its carved and curious gables, 

And its marble porticoes ; 
But she did not see the grandeur, 

And she thought her father's oaks 
Were finer than the cedars 

Clipt so close along the walks. 

So, in that full confiding 

The unworldly only know, 
Through the gateway, down the garden, 

Up the marble portico. 
Her bare feet brown as bees' wings, 

And her hands of brier-buds full. 
On, along the fleecy crimson 

Of the carpets of dyed wool, 

With a modest glance uplifted 

Through the lashes drooping down. 
Came the chopper's little daughter, 

In her simple hood and gown ; 
Still and steady, like a shadow 

Sliding inward from the wood. 
Till before the lady-mistress 

Of the house, at last, she stood. 

Oh, as sweet as summer sunshine 
Was that lady-dame to see, 

With the chopper's little daughter. 
Like a shadow at her knee ! 



Oh, green as leaves of clover 

Were the broideries of her train, 

And her hand it shone with jewels 
Like a lily with the rain. 

And the priest before the altar. 

As she swam along the aisle, 
Reading out the sacred lesson, 

Read it consciously, the while ; 
The long roll of the organ 

Drew across a silken stir, 
And when he named a saint, it was 

As if he named but her. 

But the chopper's child undazzled 

In her lady-presence stood — 
( .She was born amid the splendors 

Of the glorious autumn wood) — 
And so sweetly and serenely 

Met the cold and careless face. 
Her own alive with blushes, 

E'en as one who gives a grace ; 

As she said, the accents falling 

In a pretty childish way : 
" To-morrow, then to-morrow 

Will have brought Thanksgiving day; 
And my mother will be happy. 

And be honored, so she said, 
To have the landlord's lady 

Taste her honey and her bread." 

Then slowly spake the lady. 

As disdainfully she smiled, 
" Live you not in yonder cabin 'i 

Are you not the chopper's child } 
And your foolish mother bids me 

To Thanksgiving, do you say "i 
What is it, little starveling, 

That you give your thanks for, pray ?" 

One bashful moment's silence — 

Then hushing up her pain. 
And sweetness growing out of it 

As the rose does out of rain — 
.She stript the woolen kerchief 

FYom off her shining head. 
As one might strip the outer husk 

From the golden ear, and said : 

" What have we to give thanks for? 

Why, just for daily bread ! " 
And then, with all her little pride 

A-blushing out so reel — 
" Perhaps, too, that the sunshine 

Can come and lie on our floor, 
With none of your icy columns 

To shut it from the door ! " 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



45 



"What have we to give thanks for ?" 

And a smile illumed her tears, 
A.S a star the broken vapors, 

When it suddenly appears ; 
And she answered, all her bosom 

Throbbing up and down so fast : 
" Because my poor sick brother 

Is asleep at last, at last. 

" Asleep beneath the daisies : 

But when the drenching rain 
Has put them out, we know the dew 

Will light them up again ; 
And we make and keep Thanksgiving 

With the best the house affords, 
Since, if we live, or if we die. 

We know we are the Lord's : 

" That out His hands of mercy 

Not the least of us can fall ; 
But we have ten thousand blessings. 

And I cannot name them all ! 
Oh, see them yourself, good madam — 

I will come and show you the way — 
After the morrow, the morrow again 

Will be the great, glad day." 

And, tucking up her tresses 

In the kerchief of gray wool, 
Where they gleamed like golden wood- 
lights 

In the autumn mists so dull. 
She crossed the crimson carpets, 

With her i-ose-buds in her hands. 
And, climbing up the sheep-paths 

Of the yellow stubble-lands. 

Passed the marsh wherein the star- 
lings 

Shut so close their horny bills, 
And lighted with her loveliness 

The gateway of the hills 
Oh, the eagle has the sunshine, 

And his way is grand and still ; 
But the lark can turn the cloud into 

A temple when^he will ! 

That evening, when the corn fields 

Had lost the rainbow light 
Of vanishing wings a-trailing 

And trembling out of sight, 
Apart from her great possessions 

And from all the world apart, 
Knelt the lady-wife and mistress 

Of the rich man's house and heart. 

Knelt she, all her spirit broken, 
And the shame she could not speak, 



Burning out upon the darkness 
From the fires upon her cheek ; 

And prayed the Lord of the harvest 
To make her meek and mild, 

And as faithful in Thanksgiving 
As the chopper's little child. 



THE DEAD-HOUSE. 

In the dead of night to the Dead-house, 

She Cometh — a maiden fair — 
By the feet so slight and slender. 
By the hand so white and tender. 
And by the silken and shining lengths 

Of the girlish, golden hair. 
Dragging under and over 

The arms of the men that bear. 
Oh ! make of your pity a cover, 

And softly, silently bear : 
Perhaps for the sake of a lover, 

Loved all too well, she is there ! 

In the dead of night to the Dead-house ! 
So lovely and so lorn — 
Straighten the tangled tresses. 
They have known a mother's kisses, 
And hide with their shining veil of grace 
The sightless eyes and the pale, sad 
face 
From men and women's scorn. 
Aye, veil the poor face over, 
And softly, silently bear : 
Perhaps for the sake of a lover. 
Loved all too well, she is there. 

In the dead of night to the Dead-house ! 
Bear her in from the street : 
The watch at his watching found 

her — 
Ah ! say it low nor wound her, 
For though the heart in the bosom 

Has ceased to throb and beat, 
Speak low, when you say how they 
found her 
Buried alive in the sleet. 
Speak low, and make her a cover 

All out of her shining hair : 
Perhaps for the sake of a lover. 
Loved all to well, she was there. 

Desolate left in the Dead-house ! 
Your cruel judgments spare, 
Ye know not why she is there : 

Be slow to pronounce your " mene" 

Remember the Magdalene ; 

Be slow with your harsh award — 



46 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



Remember the Magdalene ; 

Remember the dear, dear Lord ! 
Holy, and high above her. 

By the length of her sin and shame, 
He could take her and love her — 

Praise to His precious name. 

With oil of gentle mercy 

The tide of your censure stem ; 
Have ye no scarlet sinning ? 
No need for yourselves of winning 
Those sweetest words man ever spake 
In all the world for pity's sake, 
Those words the hardest heart that 
break : 
" Neither do I condemn." 

In the light of morn to the Dead-house 

There cometh a man so old — 
•'My child!" he cries; "I will wake 

her ; 
Close, close in my arms I will take her, 
And bear her back on my shoulder, 

My poor stray lamb to the fold ! 
How came she in this dreadful place ? " 
And he stoops and puts away from the 
face 
The queenly cover of gold. 
" No, no ! " he says, " it is not my 

girl! 
As he lifts the tresses curl by curl, 
" She was never so pale and cold ! " 

In the light of morn in the Dead-house, 

He prattleth like a child — 
" No, no ! " he says, " it cannot be — 
Her sweet eyes would have answered 
me, 

And her sweet mouth must have 
smiled — 
She would have asked for her mother, 
And for the good little brother 

That thought it pastime and pleasure 
To be up and at work for her, 
And she doth not smile nor stir." 
And then, with his arms outspread 
From the slender feet to the head, 

He taketh the fearful measure. 
" No, no ! " he says, " she would wake 

and smile " — 
But he listens breathless all the while 

If haply the heart niav beat. 
And tenderly with trembling hands 
Out of the shining silken bands 

Combs the frozen sleet. 

In the light of morn in the Dead-house, 
He prattleth on and on — 



" As like her mother's as can be 
These two white hands ; but if 't were 
she 

Who out of our house is gone, 
I must have found here by her side 
He to whom she was promised bride : 
And yet this way along the sleet 
We tracked the little wandering feet. 
And yesterday, her mother said, 
When she waked and called her from 

her bed. 
She looked like one a dream had 

crazed — 
Her mother thought the sunshine dazed, 

And thought it childish passion 
That made her, when she knelt to pray, 
Falter, and be afraid to say. 

Lord, keep us from temptation. 
And I bethink, the mother said — 
(What puts such thoughts into my 
head?) 

That never once the live-long day 

Her darling sung the old love-lay 
That 't was her use to sing and hum 

As hums the bee to the blossom ; 
And that when night was nearly come 

She took from its place in her bosom 
The picture worn and cherished long, 
And as if that had done her wrong, 

Or, as if in sudden ire, 
And it were something to abhor, 

She laid it, not as she used at night 
Among the rose-leaves in the drawer. 

But out of her bosom and out of sight 
With its face against the fire. 

" But why should I torment my heart 
(And the tear from his cheek he 
dashes) 
As if such thoughts had any part 

With these pale, piteous ashes?" 
He opens the lids, and the eyes are 

blue, 
" But these are frost and my child's were 
dew ! 
No, no ! it is not my poor lost girl." 
And he takes the tresses curl by 
curl 
And tenderly feels them over. 
" If it were she, the watch I know 
Would never have dragged her out 
of the snow — 
Why, where should be her lover ! " 
And down the face and bosom fair 
He spread the long loose flood of 

hair. 
And left her in the Dead-house there, 
All under her queenly cover. 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 
ONE MOMENT. 



47 



One moment, to strictly run out by the 

sands — 
Time, in the old way just to say the 

old saying — 
Enough for your giving — enough for 

my playing 
The hope of a life in your sinless white 

hands — 
To call you my sweetheart, and ask 

you to be 
My fond little fairy, and live by the 

sea ! 

Five minutes — ten — twenty ! but little 

to spare. 
Yet enough to repeat, in the homely 

old fashion, 
A story of true love, unfrenzied with 

passion — 
To say, " Will you make my rough 

weather be fair. 
And give me each day your red cheek 

to be kissed ? 
My dear one, my darling, my rose of 

the mist ? " 

An half hour ! — would I dare say 

longer yet — 
And the time (is so much you will 

yield to my wishes). 
When luck-thriven fishermen draw 

their last fishes. 
Whose silver sleek sides in the sea 

dripping net. 
And speckles of red gold, and scales 

thin and crisp, 
Through the fog-drizzle shine like a 

Will-o'-the-wisp. 

A.n hour ! nay more — until star after 
star 

Takes his watch while the west- 
wind through shadows thick fall- 
ing, 

Holds parley, in moans, with the tide, 
outward crawling, 
Knd licking the long shaggy black of 
the bar, 

As if in lamenting some ship gone 
aground, 

Or sailors, love-lorn, in tne dead 
waters drowned. 

Two hours ! and not a hair's breadth 
from the grace 



Of your innocent trust would I any 

more vary 
Than rob of her lilies the virginal 

Mary ; 
But just in my two hands would hold 

your fair face, 
And look in your dove-eyes, and ask 

you to be 
My good little housewife, and live by 

the sea ! 

Till midnight ! till morning ! old Time 
has fleet wings, 

And the space will be brief, so my 
courage to steady, 

As say, " Who weds me may not be a 
fine lady 
With silk gowns to wear, and twenty 
gold rings. 

But with only a nest in the rocks, leav- 
ing me 

Her praises to sing as I sail on the 
sea." 

I would buy her a wheel, and some flax- 
wisps, and wool, 

So when the wild gusts of the winter 
were blowing, 

And poor little bird-nest half hid in 
the snowing, 
The time never need to be dreary nor 
dull — 

But smiling the brighter, the darker 
the day, 

Her sunshine would scatter the shad- 
ows away. 

At eve, when the mist, like a shawl of 
fine lace, 

Wrapt her softly about, like a queen 
in her splendor. 

She still would sing over old sea- 
songs, so tender, 
To keep her in mind of her sailor's 
brown face — 

Of his distance and danger, and make 
her to be 

His good little housewife, content by 
the sea. 

Believe me, sweet sweetheart, they 
have but hard lives 
Who go down to sea in great ships, 

never knowing 
How soon cruel waves o'er their 
heads will be flowing. 
And fatherless children, and true-hearted 
wives. 



48 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



The place of their dead never see, 

never know — 
But the nest waits, my darling, ah ! 

say, will you go ? 



THE FLAX-BEATER. 

" Now give me your burden, if burden 
you bear," 
So the flax-beater said, 
" And press out and wring out the rain 
from your hair, 
And come into my shed ; 
The sweetest sweet-milk you shall have 
for your fare, 
And the whitest white-bread, 
With a sheaf of the goldenest straw for 

your bed ; 
Then give me your burden, if burden 
you bear. 
And come into my shed ! 

" I make bold to press my poor lodging 

and fare. 
For the wood-path is lone, 
Aye, lonely and dark as a dungeon- 
house stair. 
And jagged with stone. 
Sheer down the wild hills, and with 

thorn-brush o'ergrown, 
I have lost it myself in despite of my 

care. 
Though I 'm used to rough ways and 

have courage to spare ; 
And then, my good friend, if the truth 

must be known. 
The huts of the settlers that stand here 

and there 
Are as rude as my own. 

" The night will be black when the day 

shall have gone ; 
'T is the old of the moon. 
And the winds will blow stiff, and more 

stiffly right on, 
By the cry of the loon ; 
Those terrible storm-harps, the oaks, are 

in tune. 
That creaking will fall to a crashing 

anon ; 
For the sake of your pitiful, poor little 

one, 
Vou cannot, good woman, have lodging 

too soon ! 



" Hark ! thunder ! and see how the 
waters are piled. 
Cloud on cloud, overhead ; 
Mavhap I 'm too bold, but I once had a 
child — 
Sweet lady, she 's dead — 
The daffodil growing so bright and so 
wild 
At the door of my shed 
Is not yet so bright as her glad golden 

head. 
And her smile ! ah, if you could have 

seen how she smiled ! 
But what need of praises — you too have 
a child ! " 
So the flax-beater said. 

" Ah, the soft summer-days, they were 
all just as one, 
And how swiftly they sped ; 

When the daisy scarce bent to her fairy- 
like tread. 

And the wife, as she sat at her wheel in 
the sun, 

Sang sea-songs and ditties of true-love 
that run 
All as smooth as her thread ; 

When her darling was gone then the 
singing was done, 

And she sewed her a shroud of the flax 
she had s]5un. 
And a cap for her head. 

" See, that cloud running over the last 

little star. 
Like a great inky blot, 
And now, in the low river hollows afar. 
You can hear the wild waters througl' 

driftwood and bar. 
Boil up like a pot ; 
It is as if the wide world was at war, 
So give me your burden, if such you 

have got. 
And come to my shed, for you must, will 

or not." 

" Get gone you old man ! I 've no bur- 
den to bear ; 
You at best are misled ! 
And as for the rain, let it fall on my hair ; 

Is that so much to dread. 
That I should be begging for lodging 
and fare 
At a flax-beater's shed ? 
Get gone, and have done with your in- 
solent stare, 
And keep your gold straw, if you leave 
me instead 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



49 



But the ground for my bed ! " 
'T was thus the strange woman with 
wringing wet hair 
In her wretchedness said. 

" No burden ! and what is it then tiiat 

I trace 
Wrapt so close in your shawl ? 
I remember the look of the dear little 

face, 
And remember the look of the head, 

round and small. 
That I saw once for all 
Under thin, filmy folds, like the folds of 

your shawl ! " 
" Why, then, 't is my bride-veil and 

gown, have the grace 
To believe — they are rolled in my 

kerchief of lace ; 
And that, old man, is all ! " 

" Woman ! woman ! bethink what it is 
that you say. 
Lest it bring you to harm. 

A bride-veil and gown are not hid such 
a way 
As the thing in your arm ! " 

" My good man, my dear man, remem- 
ber, I pray. 

What trifles were sacred your own wed- 
ding day. 

And leave me my bride-veil and gown 
hid away 
From the fret of the storm. 

Oh, soften your heart to accept what I 
say — 

It is these, only these that I have in my 
arm ! " 

" Only these ! just a touch of this thing, 
and I know 
That my thoughts were misled ! 

But why turn you pale .'' and why trem- 
ble you so ? 
If it be as you said. 

You have nothing from me nor from 
mortal to dread." 

Her voice fell to sobs, and she hung 
down her head, 

Hugged his knees, kissed his hands, 
kissed his feet as she said : 

" Now spare me, oh spare me this death- 
dealing blow. 

And give me your cold, coldest pity, in- 
stead ; 

I was crazed, and I spake you a lie in 
my woe ; 
I am bearing my dead, 

4 



To bury it out of my sight, you must 
know ; 
But, good and sweet sir, I am wed, 
I am wed ! " 

" Unswathe you the corpse, then, and 
give it to me. 
If that all be so well ; 
But what are these slender blue marks 
that I see 
At the throat ? Can you tell .' " 
" The kisses I gave it as it lay on my 

knee ! " 
"And dare you, false woman, to lie so 
to me .'' " 
" Why, then 't was the spell 
And work of a demon that came out of 

hell."' 
" Now God give you mercy, if mercy 
there be. 
For the angels that fell. 
Because, if there came up a demon from 
hell. 
That demon was thee ! " 



COTTAGE AND HALL. 

With eyes to her sewing-work dropped 
down, 

And with hair in a tangled shower, 
And with roses kissed by the sun, so 
brown. 

Young Janey sat in her bower — 
A garden nook with work and book ; 
And the bars that crossed her girlish 
gown 

Were as blue as the flaxen flower. 
And her little heart it beat and beat, 

Till the work shook on her knee, 
For the golden combs are not so sweet 

To the honey-fasting bee 
As to her her thoughts of Alexis. 

And across a good green piece of wood, 

And across a field of flowers, 
A modest, lowly house there stood 

That held her eyes for hours — 
A cottage low, hid under the snow 

Of cherry and bean-vine flowers. 
Sometimes it held her all day long. 

For there at her distaff bent. 
And spinning a double thread of song 

And of wool, in her sweet content, 
Sat the mother of young Alexis. 



50 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



And Janey turned things in and out, 

As foolish maids will do. 
What could the song be all about ? 

Yet well enough she knew 
That while the fingers drew the wool 

As fine as fine could be, 
The loving mother-heart was full 

Of her boy gone to sea — 
Her blue-eyed boy, her pride and joy, 

On the cold and cruel sea — 
Her darling boy, Alexis. 

And beyond the good green piece of 
wood, 

And the field of flowers so gay. 
Among its ancient oaks there stood, 

With gables high and gray, 
A lofty hall, where mistress of all 

She might dance the night away. 
And as she sat and sewed her seam 

In the garden bower that day 
Alike from seam and alike from dream 

Her truant thoughts would stray ; 
It would be so fine like a lady to shine. 

And to dance the night away ! 
And oh, and alas for Alexis ! 

And suns have risen and suns gone 
down 

On cherry and bean-vine bowers, 
And the tangled curls o'er the eyes dove- 
brown 

They fall no more in showers ; 
Nor are there bars in the homespun gown 

As blue as the flaxen flowers. 
Aye, winter wind and winter rain 

Have beaten away the bowers. 
And little Janey is Lady Jane, 

And dances away the hours ! 
Maidens she hath to play and sing, 

And her mother's house and land 
Could never buy the jeweled ring 

She wears on her lily hand — 
The hand that is false to Alexis ! 

Ah, bright were the sweet young cheeks 
and eyes. 
And the silken gown was gay. 
When first to the hall as mistress of all 

She came on her wedding-day. 
" Now where, my bride," says the 
groom in pride — 
" Now where will your chamber be ? " 
And from wall to wall she praises all, 

But chooses the one by the sea ! 
And the suns they rise and the suns 
they set, 
But she rarely sees their gleam. 



For often her eyes with tears are wet. 
And the sewing-work is unfinished 
yet. 
And so is the girlish dream. 

For when her ladies gird at her. 
And her lord is cold and stern, 

Old memories in her heart must stir, 
And she cannot choose but mourn 

For the gentle boy, Alexis ! 

And alway, when the dance is done, 

And her weary feet are free, 
She sits in her chamber all alone 

At the window next the sea, 
And combs her shining tresses down 

By the light of the fading stars. 
And may be thinks of her homespun 
gown 

With the pretty flax-flower bars. 
For when the foam of wintry gales 

Runs white along the blue. 
Hearing the rattle of stiffened sails, 

She trembles through and through, 
And may be thinks of Alexis. 



THE MINES OF AVONDALE. 

Old Death proclaims a holocaust — 

Two hundred men must die ! 
And he cometh not like a thief in the 
night, 

But with banners lifted high. 
He calleth the North wind out o' th' 
North 

To blow him a signal blast. 
And to plough the air with a fiery 
share, 

And to sow the sparks, broadcast. 
No fear hath he of the arm of flesh. 

And he maketh the winds to cry, 
Let come who will to this awful hill 

And his strength against me try ! 

So quick those sparks along the land 

Into blades of flame have sprung ; 
So quick the piteous face of Heaven 

With a veil of black is hung : 
And men are telling the news wiib 
words. 

And women with tears and sighs, 
And the children with the frightened 
souls 

That are staring from their eyes 
" Death, death is holding a holocaust ! 

And never was seen such pyre — 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



51 



Head packed to head and above them 
spread 
Full forty feet of fire ! " 

From hill to hill-top runs the cry. 

Through farm and village and town, 
And high and higher — "The mine's 
on fire ! 
Two hundred men sealed down ! 
And not with the dewy hand o' th' 
earth, 
And not with the leaves of the 
trees — 
Nor is it the waves that roof their 
graves — 
Oh no, it is none of these — 
From sight and sound walled round and 
round — 
For God's sake haste to the pyre ! 
In the black coal-beds, and above their 
heads 
Full forty feet of fire ! " 

And now the villages swarm like bees. 

And the miners catch the sound. 
And climb to the land with their picks 
in hand 

From their chambers in the ground. 
For high and low and rich and poor, 

To a holy instinct true. 
Stand forth as if all hearts were one 

And a-tremble through and through. 
On, side by side they roll like a tide, 

And the voice grows high and higher, 
" Come woe, come weal, we must break 
the seal 

Of that forty feet of fire." 

Now cries of fear, shrill, far and near. 

And a palsy shakes the hands. 
And the blood runs cold, for behold, 
behold 
The gap where the enemy stands ! 
Oh, never had painter scenes to paint 

So ghastly and grim as these — 
Mothers that comfortless sit on the 
ground 
With their babies on their knees ; 
The brown-cheeked lad and the maid 
as sad 
As the grandame and the sire, 
And 'twixt them all and their loved, that 
wall — 
That terrible wall of fire ! 

And the grapple begins and the fore- 
most set 
Their lives against death's laws, 



And the blazing timbers catch in their 
arms 
And bear them off like straws. 
They have lowered the flaunting flag 
from its place — 
They will die in the gap, or save ; 
For this they have done, whate'er be 
won — 
They have conquered fear of the 
grave. 
They have bafiled — have driven the 
enemy. 
And with better courage strive ; 
" Who knoweth," they say, " God's 
mercy to-day. 
And the souls He may save alive ! " 

So now the hands have digged through 
the brands — 
They can see the awful stairs. 
And there falls a hush that is only 
stirred 
By the weeping women's prayers. 
" Now who will peril his limb and 
life, 
In the damps of the dreadful mine ? " 
" I, I, and I ! " a dozen cry. 

As they forward step from line ! 
And down from the light and out o' th' 
sight, 
Man after man they go. 
And now arise th' unanswered cries 
As they beat on the doors below. 

And night came down — what a woeful 
night ! 
To the youths and maidens fair. 
What a night in the lives of the miners* 
wives 
At the gate of a dumb despair. 
And the stars have set their solemn 
watch 
In silence o'er the hill, 
And the children sleep and the women 
weep. 
And the workers work with a will. 
And so the hours drag on and on. 

And so the night goes by. 
And at last the east is gray with dawn, 
And the sun is in the sky. 

Hark, hark ! the barricades are down, 
The torchlights farther spread. 

The doubt is past — they are found at 
last — 
Dead, dead ! two hundred dead ! 

Face, close to face, in a long embrace. 
And the young and the faded hair — 



52 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



Gold over the snow as if meant to show 
Love stayed beyond despair. 

Two hundred men at yester morn 
With the work of the world to strive ; 

Two hundred yet when the day was set, 
And not a soul alive ! 

Oh, long the brawny Plymouth men, 

As they sit by their winter fires, 
Shall tell the tale of Avondale 

And its awful pyre of pyres. 
Shall hush their breath and tell how 
Death 

His flag did wildly wave. 
And how in shrouds of smoky clouds 

The miners fought in their graves. 
And how in a still procession • 

They passed from that fearful glen. 
And there shall be wail in Avondale, 

For the brave two hundred men. 



THE VICTORY OF PERRY. 

SEPTEMBER lOTH, 1813. 

Lift up the years ! lift up the years. 
Whose shadows around us spread ; 

Let us tribute pay to the brave to- 
day 
Who are half a century dead. 

Oh, not with tears — no, not with tears, 

The grateful nation comes. 
But with flags out-thrown, and bugles 
blown, 

And the martial roll of drums ! 

Beat up, beat up ! till memory glows 
And sets our hearts aflame ! 

Ah, they did well in the fight who fell. 
And we leave them to their fame ; 

Their fame, that larger, grander grows 

As time runs into the past. 
For the Erie-waves chant over their 
graves. 

And shall, while the world shall last. 

O beautiful cities of the Lake, 

As ye sit by your peaceful shore. 
Make glad and sing till the echoes 

ring, 
For our brave young Commodore ! 

Me knew your stormy oaks to take 
And their ribs into ships contrive, 



And to set them so fine in battle line, 
With their timbers yet alive.^ 

We see our squadron lie in the Bay 

Where it lay so long ago. 
And hear the cry from the mast-head 
high, 

Three times, and three, " Sml ho!'^ 

Through half a century to-day 
We hear the signal of fight — 

" Get under way 1 Get under way ! 
The enemy is in sight!'" 

Our hearts leap up — our pulses thrill, 
As the boatswains' pipes of joy 

So loudly play o'er the dash o' the 
spray, 
" All hands up atichor ahoy ! " 

Now all is still, aye, deathly still ; 

The enemy's guns are in view ! 
" To the royal fore ! " cries the commo- 
dore. 

And up run the lilies and blue,^ 

And hark to the cry, the great glad 

cry, — 

All a-tremble the squadron stands — 

From lip to lip, " Don't give up the 

ship ! " 

And then " To quarters, all hands ! " 

An hour, an awful hour drags by — 
There 's a shot from the enemy's 
gun! 
" More sail ! More sail! Let the can- 
ister hail !" 
Cries Perry, and forward, as one, 

Caledonia, Lawrence, and Scorpion, all 

Bear down and stand fast, till the 

flood 

Away from their track sends the scared 

billows back 

With their faces bedabbled in blood. 

The Queen ^ and her allies their broad- 
sides let fall — 
Oh, the Lazurence is riddled with 
storms — 

' Perry, it will be remembered, cut down the 
trees, built and launched the ships of his fleet, 
all within three months. 

2 The famous fighting-flag was inscribed with 
the immortal words of the dying Lawrence, i» 
large white letters on a blue ground, legibla 
throughout the squadron. 

3 Quee?t Charlotte of the British line. 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



53 



Where is Perry ? afloat ! he is safe in 
his boat, 
And his battle-flag up in his arms ! 

The bullets they hiss and the English- 
men shout — 
Oh, the Lawrence is sinking, a 
wreck — 
But with flag yet a-svving like a great 
bloody wing 
Perry treads the Niagara's deck ! 

With a wave of his hand he has wheeled 
her about — 
Oh, the nation is holding its breath — 
Headforemost he goes in the midst of 
his foes 
And breaks them and rakes them to 
death ! 

And lo, the enemy, after the fray, 

On the deck that his dead have lined, 

With his sword-hilt before to our Com- 
modore, 
And his war-dogs in leash behind ! 

And well, the nation does well to-day, 

Setting her bugles to blow. 
And her drums to beat for the glorious 
fleet 

That humbled her haughty foe. 

Ah, well to come with her autumn 
flowers, 

A tribute for the brave 
Who died to make our Erie Lake 

Echo through every wave — 

*' We ^ve met the enemy and they ''re 
ours ! " 

And who died, that we might stand, 
A country free and mistress at Sea 

As well as on the Land. 



THE WINDOW JUST OVER THE 
STREET. 

I SIT in my sorrow a-weary, alone ; 
I have nothing sweet to hope or re- 
member, 
For the spring o' th' year and of life 
has flown ; 
'T is the wildest night o' the wild 

December, 
And dark in my spirit and dark in 
my chamber. 



I sit and list to the steps in the street. 
Going and coming, and coming and 
going. 
And the winds at my shutter they blow 
and beat ; 
'T is the middle of night and the 

clouds are snowing ; 
A.nd the winds are bitterly beating 
and blowing. 

I list to the steps as they come and go, 

And list to the winds that are beating 

and blowing. 

And my heart sinks down so low, so 

low ; 

No step is stayed from me by the 

snowing. 
Nor stayed by the wind so bitterly 
blowing. 

I think of the ships that are out at 

sea. 
Of the wheels in th' cold, black waters 

turning ; 
Not one of the ships beareth news to 

me. 
And my head is sick, and my heart 

is yearning, 
As I think of the wheels in the black 

waters turning. 

Of the mother I think, Dy her sick 

baby's bed, 
Away in her cabin as lonesome and 

dreary, 
And little and low as the flax-breaker's 

shed; 
Of her patience so sweet, and her 

silence so weary. 
With cries of the hungry wolf hid in 

the prairie. 

I think of all things in the world that 
are sad ; 

Of children in homesick and com- 
fortless places ; 
Of prisons, of dungeons, of men that 
are mad ; 

Of wicked, unwomanly light in the 
faces 

Of women that fortune has wronged 
with disgraces. 

I think of a dear little sun-lighted head. 
That came where no hand of us all 

could deliver ; 
And crazed with the crudest pain went 

to bed 



54 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



Where the sheets were the foam- 
fretted waves of the river ; 

Poor darling ! may God in liis mercy 
forgive her. 

The footsteps grow faint and more 
faint in the snow ; 
I put back the curtain in very de- 
spairing ; 
The masts creak and groan as th' winds 
come and go ; 
And the light in the light-house all 

weirdly is flaring ; 
But what glory is this, in the gloom 
of despairing ! 

I see at the window just over the 
street, 

A maid in the lamplight her love- 
letter reading. 
Her red mouth is smiling, her news is 
so sweet ; 

And the heart in my bosom is cured 
of its bleeding, 

As I look on the maiden her love- 
letter reading. 

She has finished the letter, and folding 

it, kisses, 
And hides it — a secret too sacred to 

know ; 
And now in the hearth-light she softly 

undresses : 
A vision of grace in the roseate 

glow, 
I see her unbinding the braids of her 

tresses. 

And now as she stoops to the ribbon 

that fastens 
Her slipper, they tumble o'er shoulder 

and face ; 
And now, as she patters in bare feet, 

she hastens 
To gather them up in a fillet of 

lace ; 
And now she is gone, but in fancy I 

trace 

The lavendered linen updrawn, the 
round arm 
Half sunk in the counterpane's 
broidered roses. 
Revealing the exquisite outline of form ; 
A willowy wonder of grace that re- 
poses 
Beneath the white counterpane, fleecy 
with roses. 



I see the small hand lying over th* 

heart. 
Where the passionate dreams are so 

sweet in their sally ; 
The fair little fingers they tremble and 

part. 
As part to th' warm waves the leaves 

of the lily, 
And they play with her hand like the 

waves with the lily. 

In white fleecy flowers, the queen o' the 

flowers ! 
What to her is the world with its bad, 

bitter weather .-' 
Wide she opens her arms — ah, her 

world is not ours ! 
And now she has closed them and 

clasped them together — 
What to her is our world, with its 

clouds and rough weather } 

Hark ! midnight ! the winds and the 
snows blow and beat ; 

I drop down the curtain and say to 
my sorrow. 
Thank God for the window just over the 
street ; 

Thank God there is always a light 
whence to borrow 

When darkness is darkest, and sor- 
row most sorrow. 



A FABLE OF CLOUD-LAND. 

Two clouds in the early morning 

Came sailing up the sky — 
'T was summer, and the meadow-lands 

Were brown and baked and dry. 

And the higher cloud was large and 
black. 
And of a scornful mind. 
And he sailed as though he turned his 
back 
On the smaller one behind, 

At length, in a voice of thunder. 
He said to his mate so small, 

" If I was n't a bigger cloud than you, 
I would n't be one at all ! " 

And the little cloud that held her 
place 
So low along the sky, 



BALLADS AA'D NARRATIVE POEMS. 



55 



Grew red, then purple, in the face, 
And then she began to cry ! 

And the great cloud thundered out again 

As loud as loud could be, 
** Lag lowly still, and cry if you will, 

I 'm going to go to sea ! 

*' The land don't give me back a smile, 

I will leave it to the sun, 
And will show you something worth 
your while, 

Before the day is done ! " 

So off he ran, without a stop, 

Upon his sea voyage bent. 
And he never shed a single drop 

On the dry land as he went. 

And directly came a rumble 

Along the air so dim ; 
And then a crash, and then a dash. 

And the sea had swallowed hLn ! 

" I don't make any stir at all," 
Said the little cloud, with a sigh, 

And her tears began like rain to fall 
On the meadows parched and dry. 

And over the rye and the barley 

They fell and fell all day. 
And soft and sweet on the fields of 
wheat, 

Till she wept her heart away. 

And the bean-flowers and the buck- 
wheat. 

They scented all the air. 
And in the time of the harvest 

There was bread enough and to spare. 

I know a man like that great cloud 

As much as he can live. 
And he gives his alms with thunder- 
cloud 

Where there is no need to give. 

And I know a woman who doth keep 
Where praise comes not at all. 

Like the modest cloud that could but 
weep 
Because she was so small. 

The name of the one the poor will 
bless 

When her day shall cease to be, 
A.nd the other will fall as profitless 

As the cloud did in the sea. 



BARBARA AT THE WINDOW. 

Close at the window-pane Barbara 
stands ; 
The wall o' th' dingy old house are 
aglow ; 
Pressing her cheeks are her two little 
hands. 
Drooping her eyelids so meek and so 
low. 

What do you see little Barbara ? Say ! 
The walls o' th' dingy old house are 
aglow ; 
The leaves they are down, and the birds 
are away. 
And lilac and rosebush are white with 
the snow. 

An hour the sun has been out o' th' west ; 
The walls o' th' poor little house are 
aglow ; 
Come, Barbara, come to th' hearth with 
th' rest. 
Right gaylv she tosses her curls for a 
" No !'" 

The grandmother sits in her straw-bot- 
tom chair ; 
And rafter and wall they are brightly 
aglow ; 
The dear little mother is knitting a pair 
Of scarlet-wool stockings tipt white 
at th' toe. 

A glad girl and boy are at play by her 
knee ; 
The walls o' th' poor little house are 
aglow ! 
Now driving th' crickets, for cows, in 
their glee. 
Now rolling the yarn-balls o' scarlet 
and snow. 

And now they are fishers, with nets in 
the stream ; 
And rafter and wall o' the house are 
aglow ; 
Or sleeping, or waking, their lives are a 
dream ; 
But what seeth Barbara, there in the 
snow ? 

And th' voice of Barbara ringeth out 
clear ; 
The walls, the rough rafters, how 
brightly they glow ; 



56 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



a you will believe me, I see you all 
here ! 
Our dear little room seemeth double, 
you know. 

The fire, the tea-kettle swung on the 
crane ; 
And rafter and wall with the candle 
aglow ; 
Grandmother and mother, right over 
again ! 
And Peter, and Katharine, all in the 
snow. 

Sweet Barbara, standing so close to th' 
pane, 
With the walls o' th' little house 
brightly aglow ; 
You will only see everj'thing over again, 
Whatever you see, and wherever you 
go ! 



BARBARA IN THE MEADOW. 

The morn is hanging her fire-fringed 
veil. 
Made of the mist, o'er the walnut 
boughs. 
And Barbara, with her cedar pail, 
Comes to the meadow to call the 
cows. 

The little people that live in the air 
Are not for my human hands to 
wrong," 
Says Barbara, and her loving prayer 
Takes them up as it goes along. 

Gay sings the miller, and Barbara's 
mouth 
Purses with echoes it will not re- 
peat, 
And the rose on her cheek hath a May- 
day's growth 
In the line with the ending, " I love 
you, sweet." 

Yonder the mill is, small and white. 
Hung like a vapor among the rocks — 

Good spirits say to her morn and night, 
" Barbara, Barbara ! stay with your 
flocks." 

Stay for the treasures you have to keep, 
Cherish the love that you know is 
true : 



Though stars should shine in the tears 
you weep. 
They never would come out of heaven 
to you. 

And were you to follow the violet 
veins 
Over the hills — to the ends of the 
earth, 
Barbara, what would you get for your 
pains. 
More than your true-love's love is 
worth ? 

So, never a thought about braver mills. 

Of prouder lovers your dreaming 

cease ; 

A world is shut in among these hills — 

Stay in it, Barbara, stay, for your 

peace ! 



BALLAD OF UNCLE JOE. 

When I was young — it seems s 
though 

There never were such when — 
There lived a man that now I know 

Was just the best of men ; 
I '11 name him to you, " Uncle Joe," 

For so we called him then. 

A poor man he, that for his bread 
Must work with might and main. 

The humble roof above his head 
.Scarce kept him from the rain ; 

But so his dog and he were fed, 
He sought no other gain. 

His steel-blue axe, it was his pride, 

And over wood and wave 
Its music rang out far and wide. 

His strokes they were so brave ; 
Excepting that some neighbor died, 

And then he dug his grave. 

And whether it were wife or child. 

An old man, or a maid. 
An infant that had hardly'smiled. 

Or youth, so lowly laid, 
The yellow earth was always piled 

Above them by his spade. 

For spade he had, and grubbing-hoe^ 
And hence the people said 

It was not much that Uncle Joe 
Should bury all the dead ; 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



57 



So rich and poor, and high and low, 
He made them each a bed. 

The funeral-bell was like a jog 

Upon his wits, they say, 
That made him leave his half-cut log 

At any time of day, 
And whistle to his brindle dog 

And light his pipe of clay. 

When winter winds around him drave 
And made the snow-flakes spin, 

I 've seen him — for he did not save 
His strength, for thick nor thin — 

His bare head just above the grave 
That he was standing in. 

His simple mind was almost dark 
To school-lore, that is true ; 

The wisdom he had gained at work 
Was nearly all he knew ; 

But ah, the way he made his mark 
Was honest, through and through. 

'T was not among the rulers then 

That he in council sat ; 
They used to say that with his pen 

His fingers were not pat ; 
But he was still a gentleman 

For all and all of that. 

The preacher in his silken gown 

Was not so well at ease 
As he, with collar lopping down 

And patches at his knees. 
The envy of our little town, 

He had n't a soul to please ; 

Nor wife nor brother, chick nor child. 

Nor any kith nor kin. 
Perhaps the townsfolk were beguiled 

And the envy was a sin. 
But his look of sweetness when he smiled 

Betokened joy within. 

He sometimes took his holiday, 

And 't was a pleasant sight 
To see him smoke his pipe of clay. 

As if all the world went right. 
While his brindle dog beside him lay 

A-winking at the light. 

He took his holiday, and so 
His face with gladness shone ; 

But, ah ! I cannot make you know 
One bliss he held alone. 

Unless the heart of Uncle Joe 
Were beating in your own ! 



He had an old cracked violin, 
And I just may whisper you 

The music was so weak and thin 
'T was like to an ado, 

As he drew the long bow out and in 
To all the tune he knew. 

From January on till June, 

And back again to snow. 
Or in the tender light o' the moon, 

Or by the hearth-fire's glow, 
To that old-fashioned, crazy tune 

He made his elbow go ! 

Ah ! then his smile would come ?o 
sweet 

It brightened all the air, 
And heel and toe would beat and beat 

Till the ground of grass was bare, 
As if that little lady feet 

Were dancing with him there ! 

His finger nails, so bruised and flat, 

Would grow in this employ 
To such a rosy roundness that 

He almost seemed a boy, 
And even the old crape on his hat 

Would tremble as with joy. 

So, digging graves, and chopping A"ood, 

He spent the busy day, 
And always, as a wise man should, 

Kept evil thoughts at bay ; 
For when he could not speak the good, 

He had n't a word to say. 

And so the years in shine and storm 

Went by, as years will go. 
Until at last his palsied arm 

Could hardly draw the bow ; 
Until he crooked through all his form. 

Much like his grubbing-hoe. 

And then his axe he deeply set, 

And on the wall-side pegs 
Hung hoe and spade ; no fear nor 
fret 

That life was at the dregs, 
But walked about of a warm day yel; 

With his dog between his legs. 

Sometimes, as one who almost grieves, 

His memory would recall 
The merry-making Christmas Eves, 

The frolic, and the ball, 
Till his hands would shake like with- 
ered leaves 

And his pipe go out and fall. 



58 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



Then all his face would grow as bright — 

So I have oft heard say — 
As if that, being lost in the night, 

He saw the dawn o' the day ; 
As if from a churlish, chilling height 

He saw the light o' the May. 

One winter night the fiddle-bow 

His fingers ceased to tease, 
And they found him by the morning glow 

Beneath his door-yard trees. 
Wrapt in the ermine of the snow, 

And royally at ease. 

What matter that the winds were wild ! 

He did not hear their din, 
But hugging, as it were his child, 

Against his grizzly chin. 
The treasure of his life, he smiled, 

For all was peace within. 

And when they drew the vest apart 

To fold the hands away, 
They found a picture past all art 

Of painting, so they say ; 
And they turned the face upon the heart, 

And left it where it lay. 

And one, a boy with golden head, 
Made haste and strung full soon 

The crazy viol ; for he said. 
Mayhap beneath the moon 

They danced sometime a merry tread 
To the beloved tune. 

And many an eye with tears was dim 
The while his corse they bore ; 

No hands had ever worked for him 
Since he was born before ; 

Nor could there come an hour so grirp 
That he should need them more. 

The viol, ready tuned to play. 

The sadly-silent bow, 
The axe, the pipe of yellow clay, 

Are in his grave so low ; 
And there is nothing more to say 

Of poor old Uncle Joe. 



THE FARMER'S DAUGHTER. 

Her voice was tender as a lullaby. 
Making you think of milk-white dews 
that creep 
Among th' mid-May violets, when they 
lie, 
All in yellow moonlight fast asleep. 



Aye, tender as that most melodious tone 
The lark has, when within some 
covert dim 
With leaves, he talks with morning all 
alone. 
Persuading her to rise and come to 
him. 

Shy in her ways ; her father's cattle 
knew — 
No neighbor half so well — her foot- 
step light. 
For by the pond where mint and mallows 
grew 
Always she came and called them 
home at night. 

A sad, low pond that cut the field in 
two 
Wherein they ran, and never billow 
sent 
To play with any breeze, but still with- 
drew 
Into itself, in wrinkled, dull content. 

And here, through mint and mallows she 
would stray. 
Musing the while she called, as it 
might be 
On th' cold clouds, or winds that with 
rough gray 
Shingled the landward slope of the 
near sea. 

God knows ! not I, on what she mused 
o' nights 
Straying about the pond : she had no 
woe 
To think upon, they said, nor such de- 
lights 
As maids are wont to hide. I only 
know 

We do not know the weakness or the 
worth 
Of any one : th' Sun as he will may 
trim 
His golden lights ; he cannot see the 
earth 
He loves, but on the side she turns to 
him. 

I only know that when this lonesome 
pond 
Lifted the buried lilies from its breast 
One warm, wet day (I nothing know be- 
yond), 
It lifted her white face up with ihe rest 



POEMS 



THOUGHT AND FEELING. 



ON SEEING A DROWNING 
MOTH. 

Poor little moth ! thy summer sports 

were done, 
Had I not happened by this pool to lie ; 
But thou hast pierced my conscience 

very sore 
With thy vain flounderings, so come 

ashore 
In the safe hollow of my helpful hand, — 
Rest thee a little on the warm, dry sand, 
Then crawling out into the friendly 

sun, 
As best thou mayest, get thy wet wings 

dry. 
Aye, it has touched my conscience, little 

moth. 
To see thy bright wings made for other 

use. 
Haply for just a moment's chance abuse, 
Dragging thee, thus, to death ; yet am I 

loath 
To heed the lesson, for I fain would lie 
Along the margin of this water low 
And watch the sunshine run in tender 

gleams 
Down the gray elders — watch those 

flowers of light, — 
If flowers they be, and not the golden 

dreams 
Left in her grassy pillows by the night, — 
The dandelions, that trim the shadows 

so. 
And watch the wild flag, with her eyes 

of blue 
Wide open for the sun to look into, — 
Her green skirts laid along the wind, and 

she. 
As if to mar fair fortune wantonly, 
Wading along the water, half her height. 
Fain would I lie, with arms across my 

breast. 
As quiet as yon wood-duck on her nest, 



That sits the livelong day with ruffled 

quills, 
Waiting to see the little yellow bills 
Breach the white walls about them, — 

would that I 
Could find out some sweet charm where- 
with to buy 
A too uneasy conscience, — then would 

Rest 
Gather and fold me to itself ; and last, 
Forgetting the hereafter and the past, 
My soul would have the present for its 

guest, 
And grow immortal. 

So, my little fool. 
Thou 'rt back upon the water ! Lord ! 

how vain 
The strife to save or man or moth from 

pain 
Merited justly, — having thy wild way 
To travel all the air, thou comest here 
To try with spongy feet the treacherous 

pool ; 
Well, thou at least hast made one truth 

more clear, — 
Men make their fate, and do not fate 

obey. 



GOOD AND EVIL. 

The evil that men do lives after them. 
The good is oft interred with their bones. 
Julius C^sar. 

Once when the messenger that stays 

For all, beside me stood, 
I mused on what great Shakespeare 
says 

Of evil and of good. 

And shall the evil I have done 

Live after me ? I said ; 
When lo ! a splendor like the sun 

Shone round about my bed. 



6o 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



And a sweet spirit of the skies 

Near me, yet all apart, 
In whispers like the low wind's sighs, 

Spake to my listening heart ; 

Saying, your poet, reverenced thus, 
For once hath been unwise ; 

The good we do lives after us, 
The evil 't is that dies ! 

Evil is earthy, of the earth, — 
A thing of pain and crime, 

That scarcely sends a shadow forth 
Beyond the bounds of time. 

But good, in substance, dwells above 

This discontented sphere, 
Extending only, through God's love. 

Uncertain shadows here. 



STROLLER'S SONG. 

The clouds all round the sky are black, 
As it never would shine again ; 

But I '11 sling my wallet over my back, 
And trudge in spite of the rain ! 

And if there rise no star to guide 

My feet when day is gone, 
I '11 shift my wallet the other side, 

And trudge right on and on. 

For this of a truth I always note, 
And shape my course thereby. 

That Nature has never an overcoat 
To keep her furrows dry. 

And how should the hills be clothed 
with grain, 

The vales with flowers be crowned. 
But for the chain of the silver rain 

That draws them out of the ground ! 

So I will trudge with heart elate, 
And feet with courage shod, 

For that which men call chance and 
fate 
Is the handiwork of God. 

There 's time for the night as well as 
the morn, 
For the dark as the shining sky ; 
The grain of the corn and the flower 
unborn 
Have rights as well as I. 



A LESSON. 

One autumn-time I went into the woods 

When Nature grieves. 
And wails the drying up of the bright 
floods 

Of summer leaves. 

The rose had drawn the green quilt of 
the grass 
Over her head, 
And, taking off her pretty, rustling 
dress, 
Had gone to bed. 

And, while the wind went ruffling 
through her bower 

To do her harm. 
She lay and slept away the frosty hour, 

All safe and warm. 

The little bird that came when May was 
new, 

And sang her best, 
Had gone, — I put my double hand into 

Her chilly nest. 

Then, sitting down beneath a naked 
tree, 

I looked about, — 
Saying, in these, if there a lesson be, 

I '11 spy it out. 

And presently the teaching that was 
meant 

I thought I saw, — 
That I, in trial, should patiently consent 

To God's great law. 



He spoils his house and throws his 
pains away 
Who, as the sun veers, builds his 
windows o'er. 
For, should he wait, the Light, some 
time of day. 
Would come and sit beside him in 
his door. 



ON SEEING A WILD BIRD. 

Beautiful symbol of a freer life. 
Knowing no purpose, and yet true to 
one; 



POEMS OF THOUGHT AND FEELING. 



6i 



Would I could learn thy wisdom, I 
who run 
This way and that, striving against my 
strife. 

No fancy vague, no object half un- 
known, 
Diverts thee from thyself. By stops 

and starts 
I live the while by little broken parts 
A thousand lives, — not one of all, my 
own. 

Thou sing'st thy full heart out, and low 

or high 

Flyest at pleasure ; who of us can say 

He lives his inmost self e'en for a day. 

And does the thing he would .'' alas, 

not I. 

We hesitate, go backward, and return, 
And when the earth with living sun- 
shine gleams, 
We make a darkness round us with 
our dreams, 
And wait for that which we ourselves 
should earn. 

For we shall work out answers to our 
needs 
If we have continuity of will 
To hold our shifting purposes until 
They germinate, and bring forth fruit 
in deeds. 

We ask and hope too much, — too 
lightly press 
Toward the end sought, and haply 

learn, at length, 
That we have vainly dissipated 
strength 
Which, concentrated, would have 
brought success. 

But Truth is sure, and can afford to 
wait 
Our slow perception, (error ebbs and 

flows ;) 
Ht'r essence is eternal, and she knows 
The world must swing round to her, 
soon or late. 



RICH, THOUGH POOR. 

Red in the east the morning broke, 
And in three chambers three men woke ; 



One through curtains wove that night 
In the loom of the spider, saw the light 
Lighting the rafters black and old. 
And sighed for the genii to make them 
gold. 

One in a chamber, high and fair. 
With paneled ceilings, enameled rare, 
On the purple canopy of his bed 
Saw the light with a sluggard's dread. 
And buried his sullen and sickly face 
Deep in his pillow fringed with lace. 

One, from a low and grassy bed. 
With the golden air for a coverlet ; 
No ornaments had he to wear 
But his curling beard and his coal-black 

hair ; 
His wealth was his acres, and oxen 

twain. 
And health was his cheerful chamberlain. 

Night fell stormy — " Woe is me ! " 
Sighed so wearily two of the three ; 
" The corn I planted to-day will sprout," 
Said one, " and the roses be blushing 

out ; " 
And his heart with its joyful hope o'er- 

ran : 
Think you he was the poorest man .' 



Still from the unsatisfying quest 
To know the final plan, 

I turn my soul to what is best 
In nature and in man. 



The glance that doth thy neighbor 
doubt 

Turn thou, O man, within, 
And see if it will not bring out 

Some unsuspected sin. 

To hide from shame the branded brow, 

Make broad thy charity. 
And judge no man, exxept as thou 

Wouldst have him judge of thee. 



SIXTEEN. 

Suppose your hand with power sup- 
plied, — 
Say, would you slip it 'neath my hair, 



62 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



And turn it to the golden side 

Of sixteen years ? Suppose you dare ? 

And I stood here with smiling mouth, 
Red cheeks, and hands all softly white, 

Exceeding beautiful with youth, 

And that some sly, consenting sprite 

Brought dreams as bright as dreams 
can be. 
To keep the shadows from my brow. 
And plucked down hearts to pleasure 
me, 
As you would roses from a bough ; 

What could I do then ? idly wear — 
While all my mates went on before — 

The bashful looks and golden hair 
Of sixteen years, and nothing more ! 

Nay, done with youth is my desire, 
To Time I give no false abuse, 

Experience is the marvelous fire 
That welds our knowledge into use. 

And all its fires of heart, or brain, 
Where purpose into power was 
wrought, 

I 'd bear, and gladly bear again. 

Rather than be put back one thought. 

So sigh no more, my gentle friend. 
That I have reached the time of day 

When white hairs come, and heart-beats 
send 
No blushes through the cheeks astray. 

For, could you mould my destiny 
As clay within your loving hand, 

I 'd leave my youth's sweet company, 
And suffer back to where I stand. 



PRAYER FOR LIGHT. 

Oh what is Thy will toward us mortals, 

Most Holy and High ? 
bhi-U we die unto life while we 're liv- 
ing ? 

Or die while we die ? 

Can we serve Thee and wait on Thee 
only 
In cells, dark and low ? 
Must the altars we build Thee be built 
with 
The stones of our woe ? 



Shall we only attain the great meas- 
ures 

Of grace and of bliss 
In the life that awaits us, by cruelly 

Weaning on this .'' 

Or, may we still watch while we work, 
and 

Be glad while we pray ' 
So reverent, we cast the poor shows of 

Our reverence away ! 

Shall the nature Thou gav'st us, pro- 
nouncing it 

Good, and not ill, 
Be warped by our pride or our passion 

Outside of Thy will .-' 

Shall the sins which we do in our blind- 
ness 

Thy mercy transcend, 
And drag us down deeper and deeper 

Through worlds without end .'' 

Or, aie we stayed back in sure limits, 

And Thou, high above, 
O'erruling our trials for our triumph. 

Our hatreds for love .' 

And is each soul rising, though slowly, 

As onward it fares. 
And are life's good things and its evil 

The steps in the stairs .'' 

All day with my heart and my spirit, 

In fear and in awe, 
I strive to feel out through my darkness 

Thy light and Thy law. 

And this, when the sun from his shining 

Goes sadly away. 
And the moon looketh out of her cham- 
ber, 

Is all I can say ; 

That He who foresaw of transgression 

The might and the length, 
Has fashioned the law to exceed not 

Our poor human strength ! 



THE UNCUT LEAF. 

You think I do not love you ! Why, 
Because I have my secret grief "i 

Because in reading I pass by. 
Time and again, the uncut leaf "i 



POEMS OF THOUGHT AND FEELING. 



63 



One rainy night you read to me 
In some old book, I know not what, 

About the woods of Eldersie, 
And a great hunt — I have forgot 

What all the story was — ah, well, 
It touched me, and I felt the i:)ain 

With which the poor dumb creature fell 
To his weak knees, then rose again, 

And shuddering, dying, turned about. 
Lifted his antlered head in pride. 

And from his wounded face shook out 
The bloody arrows ere he died ! 

That night I almost dared, I think. 
To cut the leaf, and let the sun 

Shine in upon the mouldy ink, — 
You ask me why it was not done. 

Because I rather feel than know 

The truth which every soul receives 

From kindred souls that long ago 
You read me through the double 
leaves ! 

So pray you, leave my tears to blot 
The record of my secret grief, 

And though I know you know, seem not 
Ever to see the uncut leaf. 



THE MIGHT OF TRUTH. 

We are proclaimed, even against our 
wills — 
If we are silent, then our silence 
speaks — 

Children from tumbling on the summer- 
hills 
Come home with roses rooted in their 
cheeks. 

I think no man can make his lie hold 
good, — 

One way or other, truth is understood. 

The still sweet influence of a life of 

prayer 
Quickens their hearts who never bow 

the knee, — 
So come fresh draughts of living inland 

air 
To weary homesick men, far out at sea. 
Acquaint thyself with God, O man, and 

lo ! 
His light shall, like a garment, round 

thee flow. 



The selfishness that with our lives has 
grown. 
Though outward grace its full expres- 
sion bar. 

Will crop out here and there like belts 
of stone 
From shallow soil, discovering what 
we are. 

Tlie thing most specious cannot stead 
the true, — 

Who would appear clean, must be clean 
all through. 

In vain doth Satan say, " My heart is 
glad, 
I wear of Paradise the morning gem ; " 
While on his brow, magnificently sad. 

Hangs like a crag his blasted diadem. 
Still doth the truth the hollow lie invest, 
And all the immortal ruin stands con- 
fessed. 



TWO TRAVELERS. 

Two travelers, meeting by the way, 
Arose, and at the peep of day 
Brake bread, paid reckoning, and they 
say 

Set out together, and so trode 
Till where upon the forking road 
A gray and good old man abode. 

There each began his heart to strip, 
And all that light companionship 
That cometh of the eye and lip 

Had sudden end, for each began 
To ask the gray and good old man 
Whither the roads before them ran. 

One, as they saw, was shining bright, 
With such a great and gracious light. 
It seemed that heaven must be in sight. 

"This," said the old man, "doth begin 
Full sweetly, but its end is in 
The dark and desert-place of sin. 

" And this, that seemeth all to lie 
In gloomy shadow, — by-and-by, 
Maketh the gateway of the sky. 

" Bide ye a little ; fast and pray. 
And 'twixt the good and evil way. 
Choose ye, my brethren, this day." 



64 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



And as the day was at the close 
The two wayfaring men arose, 
And each the road that pleased him 
chose. 

One took the pathway that began 
So brightly, and so smoothly ran 
Through flowery fields, — deluded man ! 

Ere long he saw, alas ! alas ! 

All darkly, and as through a glass. 

Flames, and not flowers, along the grass. 

Then shadows round about him fell, 
And in his soul he knew full well 
His feet were taking hold on hell. 

He tried all vainly to retrace 

His pathway ; horrors blocked the place, 

And demons mocked him to his face. 

Broken in spirit, crushed in pride. 
One morning by the highway -side 
He fell, and all unfriended, died. 

The other, after fast and prayer, 
Pursued the road that seemed less fair. 
And peace went with him, unaware. 

And when the old man saw where lay 
The traveler's choice, he said, " I pray, 
Take this to help you on the way ; " 

And gave to him a lovely book, 
"Wherein for guidance he must look. 
He told him, if the path should crook. 

And so, through labyrinths of shade. 
When terror pressed, or doubt dis- 
mayed, 
He walked in armor all arrayed. 

So, over pitfalls traveled he. 
And passed the gates of harlotry. 
Safe with his heavenly company. 

And when the road did low descend, 
He found a good inn, and a friend. 
And made a comfortable end. 



THE BLIND TRAVELER. 

A. POOR blind man was traveling one 
day. 
The guiding staff from out his hand 
was gone, 



And the road crooked, so he lost his 
way. 
And the night fell, and a great storm 
came on. 

He was not, therefore, troubled and 
afraid. 
Nor did he vex the silence with his 
cries. 
But on the rainy grass his cheek he 
laid. 
And waited for the morning sun to 
rise. 

Saying to his heart, — Be still, my 
heart, and wait. 
For if a good man happen to go by, 
He will not leave us to our dark es- 
tate 
And the cold cover of the storm, to 
die ; 

But he will sweetly take us by the hand, 
And lead us back into the straight 
highway ; 
Full soon the clouds will have evan- 
ished, and 
All the wide east be blazoned with 
the day. 

And we are like that blind man, all of 
us, — 
Benighted, lost ! But while the storm 
doth fall 
Shall we not stay our sinking hearts 
up, thus, — 
Above us there is One who sees it 
all; 

And if His name be Love, as we are 

told. 
He will not leave us to unequal strife ; 
But to that city with the streets of gold 
Bring us, and give us everlasting life. 



MY GOOD ANGEL. 

Very simple are my pleasures, — 
O good angel, stay with me. 
While I number what they be, — 

Easy 't is to count my treasures. 

Easy 't is, — they are not many : 
Friends for love and company, 
O good angel grant to me ; 

Strength to work ; and is there any 



POEMS OF THOUGHT AND FEELING. 



65 



Man or woman, evil seeing 
In my daily walk and way, 
Grant, and give me^grace to pray 

For a less imperfect benig. 

Grant a larger light, and better, 
To inform my foe and me, 
So we quickly shall agree ; 

Grant forgiveness to my debtor. 

Make my heart, I pray, of kindness 
Always full, as clouds of showers ; 

Keep my mortal eyes from blindness , 
I would see the sun and flowers. 

From temptation pray deliver ; 

And, good angel, grant to me 
That my heart be grateful ever : 

Herein all my askings be. 



CARE. 



Care is like a husbandman 

Who doth guard our treasures : 

And the while, all ways he can, 
Spoils our harmless pleasures. 

Loving hearts and laughing brows, 
Most he seeks to plunder. 

And each furrow that he ploughs 
Turns the roses under. 



MORE LIFE. 

When spring - time prospers in the 
grass. 

And fills the vales with tender bloom, 
And light winds whisper as they pass 

Of sunnier days to come : 

In spite of all the joy she brings 

To flood and field, to hill and grove. 

This is the song my spirit sings, — 
More light, more life, more love ! 

And when, her time fulfilled, she goes 
So gently from her vernal place 

And meadow wide and woodland glows 
With sober summer grace : 

When on the stalk the ear is set. 
With all the harvest promise bright. 

My spirit sings the old song yet, — 
More love, more life, more light. 



When stubble takes the place of grain, 
And shrunken streams steal slow 
along, 

And all the faded woods complain 
Like one who suffers wrong ; 

When fires are lit, and everywhere 
The pleasures of the household rife, 

My song is solemnized to prayer, — 
More love, more light, more life ! 



CONTRADICTORY. 

We contradictory creatures 
Have something in us alien to our birth, 
That doth suffuse us with the infinite, 

While downward through our natures 
Run adverse thoughts, that only find 
delight 

In the poor perishable things of earth. 

Blindly we feel about 
Our little circle, — ever on the quest 
Of knowledge, which is only, at the 

best. 
Pushing the boundaries of our igno« 
ranee out. 

But while we know all things are mira- 
cles. 
And that we cannot set 
An ear of corn, nor tell a blade of 

grass 
The way to grow, our vanity o'erswell? 
The limit of our wisdom, and we yet 
Audaciously o'erpass 
This narrow promontory 
Of low, dark land, into the unseen gloryj 

And with unhallowed zeal 
Unto our fellow-men God's judgment? 
deal. 

Sometimes along the gloom 
We meet a traveler, striking hands with 

whom, 
Maketh a little sweet and tender light 

To bless our sight. 
And change the clouds around us and 

above 
Into celestial shapes, — and this is love. 

Morn Cometh, trailing storms. 
Even while she wakes a thousand 
grateful psalms 
And with her golden calms 
All the wide valley fills i 



66 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



Darkly they lie below 
The purple fire, — the glow, 
Where, on the high tops of the eastern 
hills, 
She rests her cloudy arms. 

And we are like the morning, — heav- 
enly light 
Blowing about our heads, and th' dumb 

night 
Before us and behind us ; ceaseless 

ills 
Make up our years ; and as from off the 

hills. 
The white mists melt, and leave them 

bare and rough, 
So melt from us the fancies of our 

youth 
Until we stand against the last black 

truth 
Naked and cold, and desolate enough. 



THIS IS ALL. 

Trying, trying — always trying— > 
Falling down to save a fall ; 

Living by the dint of dying, — 
This is all ! 

Giving, giving — always giving — 
Gathering just abroad to cast ; 

Dying by the dint of living 
At the last ! 

Sighing, smiling — smiling, sighing — 
Sun in shade, and shade in sun ; 

Dying, living — living, dying — 
Both in one ! 

Hoping in our very fearing. 

Striving hard against our strife ; 

Drifting in the stead of steering, — 
This is life 1 

Seeming to believe in seeming, 
Half disproving, to ^prove ; 
Knowing that we dream, in dream- 

This is love ! 

Being in our weakness stronger, — 
Living where there is no breath ; 

Feeling harm can harm no longer, — 
This is death. 



IN VAIN. 

Down the peach-tree slid 

The milk-white drops of th' dew, 

All in that merry time of th' year 
When the world is made anew. 

The daisy dressed in white. 
The paw-paw flower in brown, 

And th' violet sat by her lover, 
brook. 
With her golden eyelids down. 



th 



Gayly its own best hue 

Shone iri each leaf and stem, — 
Gayly the children rolled on th' grass, 

With their shadows after them. 

I said, Be sweet for me, 

little wild flowers ! for I 

Have larger need, and shut in myself, 

1 wither and waste and die ! 

Pity m.e, sing for me ! 

I cried to the tuneful bird ; 
My heart is full of th' spirit of song. 

And I cannot sing a word ! 

Like a buried stream that longs 
Through th' upper world to run, 

And kiss the dawn in her rosy mouth, 
And lie in th' light of th' sun ; 

So in me, is my soul. 

Wasting in darkness the hours, 
Ever fretted and sullen and sad 

With a sense of its unused powers. 

In vain ! each little flower 

Must be sweet for itself, nor part 

With its white or brown, and every 
bird 
Must sing from its own full heart. 



BEST, TO THE BEST. 

The wind blows where it listeth. 
Out of the east and west, 

And the sinner's way is as dark 
death, 
And life is best, to the best. 

The touch of evil corrupteth ; 
Tarry not on its track ; 



POEMS OF THOUGHT AND FEELING. 



67 



The grass where the serpent crawls is 
stirred 
As if it grew on his back. 

To know the beauty of cleanness 

The heart must be clean and sweet ; 

We must love our neighbor to get his 
love, — 
As we measure, he will mete. 

Cold black crusts to the beggar, 

A cloak of rags and woe ; 
And the furrows are warm to the sower's 
feet, 

And his bread is white as snow. 

Can blind eyes see the even. 

As he hangs on th' day's soft close, 

Like a lusty boy on his mother's neck. 
Bright in the face as a rose ? 

The grave is cold and cruel, — 

Rest, pregnant with unrest ; 
And woman must moan and man must 
groan ; 

But life is best, to the best. 



THORNS. 

I DO not think the Providence unkind 
That gives its bad things to this life 
of ours ; 
They are the thorns whereby we, trav- 
elers blind. 
Feel out our flowers. 

I think hate shows the quality of love, — 
That wrong attests that somewhere 
there is right : 
Do not the darkest shadows serve to 
prove 
The power of light ? 

On tyrannous ways the feet of Freedom 
press ; 
The green bough broken off, lets 
sunshine in ; 
&.nd where sin is, aboundeth righteous- 
ness. 
Much more than sin. 

Man cannot be all selfish ; separate good 
Is nowhere found beneath the shining 
sun : 

All adverse interests, truly understood, 
Resolve to one ! 



I do believe all worship doth ascend, — 
Whether from temple floors by hea- 
then trod, 
Or from the shrines where Christian 
praises blend, — 
To the true God, 

Blessed forever : that His love prepares 
The raven's food ; the sparrow's fall 
doth see ; 

And, simple, sinful as I am, He cares 
Even for me. 



OLD ADAM. 

The wind is blowing cold from the 
west. 

And your hair is gray and thin ; 
Come in, Old Adam, and shut the 
door, — 

Come in, old Adam, come in ! 
"The wind is blowing out o' the west, 

Cold, cold, and my hair is thin ; 
But it is not there, that face so fair. 

And why should I go in } " 

The wind is blowing cold from the 
west ; 

The day is almost gone ; 
The cock is abed, the cattle fed, 

And the night is coming on ! 
Come in, old Adam, and shut the door, 

And leave without your care. 
" Nay, nay, for the sun of my life is 
down. 

And the night is everywhere." 

The cricket chirps, and your chair is set 
Where the fire shines warm and 
clear : 
Come in, old Adam, and you will forget 

It is not the spring o' the year. 
Come in ! the wind blows wild from 
the west, 
And your hair is gray and thin. 
" 'T is not there now, that sweet, sweet 
brow, 
And why should I go in } " 



SOMETIMES. 

Sometimes for days 
Along the fields that I of time have 
leased. 



68 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



I go, nor find a single leaf increased ; 

And hopeless, graze 
With forehead stooping downward like 
a beast. 

heavy hours ! 

My life seems all a failure, and I sigh, 
What is there left for me to do, but 
die? 
So small my powers 
That I can only stretch them to a cry ! 

But while I stretch 
What strength I have, though only to a 

cry, 
I gain an utterance that men know me 
by; 
Create, and fetch 
A something out of chaos, — that is I. 

Good comes to pass 
We know not when nor how, for, look- 
ing to 
What seemed a barren waste, there 
starts to view 
Some bunch of grass. 
Or snarl of violets, shining with the dew. 

1 do believe 

The very impotence to pray, is prayer ; 
The hope that all will end, is in despair. 

And while we grieve, 
Comfort abideth with us, unaware. 



Too much of joy is sorrowful. 
So cares must needs abound ; 

The vine that bears too many flowers 
Will trail upon the ground. 



THE SEA-SIDE CAVE. 

" A bird of the air shall carry the voice, and that 
which hath wings tell the matter.-' 

At the dead of night by the side of the 

Sea 
I met my gray-haired enemy, — 
The glittering light of his serpent eye 
Was all I had to see him by. 

At the dead of night, and stormy 

weather. 
We went into a cave together, — 
Into a cave by the side of the Sea, 
And — he never came out with me ! 



The flower that up through the April 

mould 
Comes like a miser dragging his gold. 
Never made spot of earth so bright 
As was the ground in the cave that 

night. 

Dead of night, and stormy weather ! 
Who should see us going together 
Under the black and dripping stone 
Of the cave from whence I came alone E 

Next day as my boy sat on my knee 
He picked the gray hairs off from me. 
And told with eyes brimful of fear 
How a bird in the meadow near 

Over her clay-built nest had spread 
Sticks and leaves all bloody red, 
Brought from a cave by the side of the 

Sea 
Where some murdered man must be. 



THE MEASURE OF TIME. 

A BREATH, like the wind's breath, may 
carry 

A name far and wide. 
But the measure of time does not tally 

With any man's pride. 

'T is not a wild chorus of praises, 
Nor chance, nor yet fate, — 

'T is the greatness born with him, and 
in him, 
That makes the man great. 

And when in the calm self-possession 

That birthright confers, 
The man is stretched out to her measure, 

Fame claims him for hers. 

Too proud to fall back on achieve- 
ment. 

With work in his sight. 
His triumph may not overtake him 

This side of the night. 

And men, with his honors about them, 
His grave-nround may pass. 

Nor dream whrff a great heart lies under 
Its short knotty grass. 

But though he has lived thus unpros- 
pered, 
And died thus, alone, 



POEMS OF THOUGHT AND FEELING. 



69 



His face may not always be hid by 
A hand-breadth of stone. 

The long years are wiser than any 

Wise day of them all, 
And the hero at last shall stand up- 
right, — 

The base image fall. 

The counterfeit may for a season 

Deceive the wide earth, 
But the lie, waxing great, comes to 
labor. 

And truth has its birth. 



IDLE FEARS. 

In my lost childhood old folks said to 

me, 
" Now is the time and season of your 

bliss ; 
All joy is in the hope of joy to be, 
Not in possession ; and in after years 
You will look back with longing sighs 

and tears 
To the young days when you from care 

were free." 
It was not true ; they nurtured idle fears ; 
I never saw so good a day as this ! 

And youth and I have parted : long 

ago 
I looked into my glass, and saw one day 
A little silver line that told me so : 
At first I shut my eyes and cried, and 

then 
I hid it under girlish flowers, but when 
Persuasion would not make my mate to 

stay, 
I bowed my faded head, and said, 

" Amen ! " 
And all my peace is since she went away. 

My window opens toward the autumn 

woods ; 
I see the ghosts of thistles walk the air 
O'er the long, level stubble-land that 

broods ; 
Beneath the herbless rocks that jutting 

lie, 
Summer has gathered her white family 
Of shrinking daisies; all the hills are 

bare, 
And in the meadows not a limb of buds 
Through the brown bushes showcth 

anywhere. 



Dear, beauteous season, we must say 
good-by, 

And can afford to, we have been so blest. 

And farewells suit the time ; the year 
doth lie 

With cloudy skirts composed, and pallid 
face 

Hid under yellow leaves, with touching 
grace, 

So that her bright-haired sweetheart <A 
the sky 

The image of her prime may not dis- 
place. 



Do not look for wrong and evil — 

"ou will find them if you do ; 

As you measure for your neighbor 

lie will measure back to you. 

Look for goodness, look for gladness, 
You will meet them all the while ; 

If you bring a smiling visage 
To the glass, you meet a smile?) 



Our unwise purposes are wisely 
crossed ; 
Being small ourselves, we must essay 

small things : 
Th' adventurous mote, with wide, out- 
wearied wings 
Crawling across a water-drop, is lost. 



HINTS. 

Two thirsty travelers chanced one day 
to meet 
Where a spring bubbled from the 

burning sand ; 
One drank out of the hollow of his 
hand. 
And found the water very cool and sweet. 

The other waited for a smith to beat 

And fashion for his use a golden cu]) ; 
And while he waited, fainting in the 
heat, 
The sunshine came and drank the 
fountain up ! 

In a green field two little flowers there 
were. 
And both were fair in th' face and 
tender-eyed ; 



70 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



One took the light and dew that 
heaven supplied, 
And all the summer gusts were sweet 
with her. 

The other, to her nature false, denied 
That she had any need of sun and 

dew, 
And hung her silly head, and sickly 
grew, 
And frayed and faded, all untimely 
died. 

A vine o' th' bean, that had been early 
wed 
To a tall peach, conceiving that he 

hid 
Her glories from the world, unwisely 
slid 
Out of his arms, and vainly chafing, said : 

" This fellow is an enemy of mine. 
And dwarfs me with his shade : " she 

would not see 
That she was made a vine, and not a 
tree. 
And that a tree is stronger than a vine. 



TO A STAGNANT RIVER. 

O RIVER, why lie with your beautiful 

face 
To the hill ? Can you move him away 

from his place ? 
You may moan, — you may clasp him 

with soft arms forever, — 
He will still be a flinty hill, — you be a 

river. 

T is willful, 't is wicked to waste in de- 
spair 

The treasure so many are dying to 
share. 

The gifts that we have, Heaven lends 
for right using, 

And not for ignoring, and not for abus- 
ing. 

Let the moss have his love, and the grass 

and the dew, — 
By God's law he cannot be mated with 

you. 
His friend is the stubble, his life is the 

dust, 
Vou are not what you would, — you 

must be what you must. 



If into his keeping your fortune you 

cast, 
I tell you the end will be hatred at 

last. 
Or death through stagnation ; your rest 

is in motion ; 
The aim of your being, the cloud and 

the ocean. 

Love cannot be love, with itself set at 

strife ; 
To sin against Nature is death and not 

life. 
You may freeze in the shadow or seethe 

in the sun. 
But the oil and the water will not be at 

one. 

Your pride and your peace, when this 

passion is crossed. 
Will pay for the struggle whatever it 

cost ; 
But though earth dissolve, though the 

heavens should fall. 
To yourself, your Creator, be true first 

of all. 



Apart from the woes that are dead and 
gone. 

And the shadow of future care. 
The heaviest yoke of the present hour 

Is easy enough to bear. 



COUNSEL. 

Seek not to walk by borrowed light, 

But keep unto thine own : 
Do what thou doest with thy might. 

And trust thyself alone ! 

Work for some good, nor idly lie 

Within the human hive ; 
And though the outward man should 
die, 

Keep thou the heart alive ! 

Strive not to banish pain and doubt, 

In pleasure's noisy din ; 
The peace thou seekest for without 

Is only found within. 

If fortune disregard thy claim. 
By worth, her slight attest ; 




THE STAGNANT RIVER, ETC. Page 70 



POEMS OF THOUGHT AND FEELING. 



71 



Nor blush and hang the head for shame 
When thou hast done thy best. 

What thy experience teaches true. 

Be vigilant to heed ; 
The wisdom that we suffer to. 

Is wiser than a creed 

Disdain neglect, ignore despair, 
On loves and friendships gone 

Plant thou thy feet, as on a stair, 
And mount right up and on ! 



LATENT LIFE. 

Though never shown by word or 
deed. 

Within us lies some germ of power, 
As lies unguessed, within the seed, 

The latent flower. 

And under every common sense 
That doth its daily use fulfill, 

There lies another, more intense, 
And beauteous still. 

This dusty house, wherein is shrined 
The soul, is but the counterfei. 

Of that which shall be, more refined, 
And exquisite. 

The light which to our sight belongs. 
Enfolds a light more broad and 
clear ; 

Music but intimates the songs 
We do not hear. 

The fond embrace, the tender kiss 
Which love to its expression brings, 

Are but the husk the chrysalis 
Wears on its wings. 

The vigor falling to decay, 

Hopes, impulses that fade and die, 
Are but the layers peeled away 

From life more high. 

When death shall come and disailow 
These rough and ugly masks we wear, 

I think, that we shall be as now, — 
Only more fair. 

And He who makes his love to be 
Always around me, sure and calm, 

Sees what is possible to me. 
Not what I am. ^ 



HOW AND WHERE. 



(^' 



How are we living ? 
LikMierbs in a garden that stand in a row. 
And have nothing to do but to stand 
there and grow ? 
Our powers of perceiving 
So dull and so dead, 
They simply extend to the objects about 

us, — 
The moth, having all his dark pleasure 
without us, — 
The worm in his bed ! 

If thus we are living. 
And fading and falling, and rotting, 

alas ! — 
Like the grass, or the flowers that grow 
in the grass, — 
Is life worth our having ? 
The insect a-humming — 
The wild bird is better, that sings as it 

flies, — 
The ox, that turns up his great face to 
the skies. 
When the thunder is coming. 

Where are we living ? 
In passion, and pain, and remorse do we 

dwell, — 
Creating, yet terribly hating, our hell .'' 
No triumph achieving .'' 
No grossness refining ? 
The wild tree does more ; for his coat 

of rough barks 
He trims with green mosses, and checks 
with the marks 
Of the long summer shining. 

We 're dying, not living : 
Our senses shut up, and our hearts 

faint and cold ; 
Upholding old things just because they 
are old ; 
Our good spirits grieving. 
We suffer our springs 
Of promise to pass without sowing the 

land, 
And hungry and sad in the harvest-time 
stand, 
E.xpecting good things ! 



THE FELLED TREE. 

Thf.y set me up, and bade me stand 
Beside a dark, dark sea. 



72 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



In the befogged, low-lying land 
Of this mortality. 

I slipped my roots round the stony soil 
Like rings on the hand of a bride, 

And my boughs took hold of the sum- 
mer's smile 
And grew out green and wide. 

Crooked, and shaggy on all sides, 

I was homeliest of trees, 
But the cattle rubbed their speckled 
hides 

Against my knotty knees ; 

And lambs, in white rows on the grass, 
Lay down within my shade ; 

So I knew, all homely as I was, 
For a good use I was made. 

And my contentment served me well ; 

My heart grew strong and sweet, 
And my shaggy bark cracked off and 
fell 

In layers at my feet. 

I felt when the darkest storm was rife 
The day of its wrath was brief, 

And that I drew from the centre of life 
The life of my smallest leaf. 

At last a woodman came one day 
With a.xe to a sharp edge ground, 

And hewed at my heart till I stood 
a-sway, 
But I never felt the wound. 

I knew immortal seed was sown 

Within me at my birth, 
And I fell without a single groan, 

With my green face to the earth. 

Now all men pity me, and must, 

Who see me lie so low. 
But the Power that changes me to dust 

Is the same that made me grow. 



A DREAM. 

I DREAMED I had a plot of ground, 
Once when I chanced asleep to drop, 

And tliat a green hedge fenced it round. 
Cloudy with roses at the top. 

I saw a hundred mornings rise, — 
So far a little dream may reach, — 



And spring with summer in her eyes 
Making the chiefest charm of each. 

A thousand vines were climbing o'er 
The hedge, I thought, but as I tried 

To ])ull them down, for evermore ' 
The flowers dropt off the other side! 

Waking, I said, these things are signs 
Sent to instruct us that 't is ours 

Duly to keep and dress our vines, — 
Waiting in patience for the flowers. 

And when the angel feared of all 
Across my hearth its shadow spread, 

The rose that climbed my garden wall 
Has bloomed the other side, I said. 



WORK. 



Down and up, and up and down, 

Over and over and over ; 
Turn in the little seed, dry and brown, 

Turn out the bright red clover. 
Work, and the sun your work will share, 

And the rain in its time will fall ; 
For Nature, she worketh everywhere, 

And the grace of God through all. 

With hand on the spade and heart in 
the sky. 

Dress the ground, and till it ; 
Turn in the little seed, brown and dry. 

Turn out the golden millet. 
Work, and your house shall be duly fed ,• 

Work, and rest shall be won ; 
I hold that a man had better be dead 

Than alive, when his work is done ! 

Down and up, and up and down. 

On the hill-top, low in the valley ; 
Turn in the little seed, dry and brown, 

Turn out the rose and lily. 
Work with a plan, or without a plan, 

And your ends they shall be shaped 
true ; 
Work, and learn at first iiand, like 9 
man, — 

The best way to kytow is to do ! 

Down and up till life shall close. 

Ceasing not vour praises ; 
Turn in the wild white winter snows, 

Turn out the sweet spring daisies. 
Work, and the sun your work will sharq 

And the rain in its time will fall ; 



POEMS OF THOUGHT AND FEELING. 



For Nature, she worketh everywhere, 
And the grace of God through all. 



COMFORT. 

Boatman, boatman ! my brain is wild, 
As wild as the stormy seas ; 

Mv poor little child, my sweet little 
child. 
Is a corpse upon my knees. 

No holy choir to sing so low. 
No priest to kneel in prayer, 

No tire-woman to help me sew 
A cap for his golden hair. 

Dropping his oars in the rainy sea. 

The pious boatman cried, 
Not without Him who is life to thee 

Could the little child have died ! 

His grace the same, and the same His 
power. 

Demanding our love and trust. 
Whether He makes of the dust a flower 

Or changes a flower to dust. 

On the land and the water, all in all. 
The strength to be still or pray, 

To blight the leaves in their time to fall. 
Or light up the hills with May. 



n 



FAITH AND WORKS. 



S* 



Not what we think, but what we do. 
Makes saints of us : all stiff and 
cold. 

The outlines of the corpse show through 
The cloth of gold. 



And in despite the outward sin, — 
Despite belief with creeds at strife, — 

The princijile of love within 
Leavens the life. 

For, 't is for fancied good, I claim. 
That men do wrong, — not wrong's 
desire ; 
Wrapping themselves, as 't were, in 
flame 
To cheat the fire. 

Not what God gives, but what He takes. 
Uplifts us to the holiest height ; 



On truth's rough crags life's current 
breaks 
To diamond light. 

From transient evil I do trust 
That we a final good shall draw ; 

That in confusion, death, and dust 
Are light and law. 

That He whose glory shines among 
The eternal stars, descends to mark 

This foolish little atom swung 
Loose in the dark. 

But though I should not thus receive 
A sense of order and control, 

My God, I could not disbelieve 
My sense of soul. 

For though, alas ! I can but see 

A hand's breadth backward, or before, 

I am, and since 1 am, must be 
For evermore. 



THE RUSTIC PAINTER. 

His sheep went idly over the hills, — 

Idly down and up, — 
As he sat and painted his sweetheart's 
face 

On a little ivory cup. 

All round him roses lay in the grass 
That were hardly out of buds ; 

For sake of her mouth and cheek, I 
knew 
He had murdered them in the woods. 

The ant, that good little housekeeper. 

Was not at work so hard ; 
And yet the semblance of a smile 

Was all of his reward : 

And the golden-belted gentleman 

That travels in the air. 
Hummed not so sweet to the clover- 
buds 

As he to his picture there. 

The while for his ivory cup he made 

An easel of his knee. 
And painted his little sweetheart's face 

Truly and tenderly. 

Thus we are marking on all out work 
Whatever we have of grace : 



74 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



As the rustic painted his ivory cup 
With his little sweetheart's face. 



ONE OF MANY. 

I KNEW a man — I know him still 
In part, in all I ever knew, — 

Whose life runs counter to his will. 
Leaving the things he fain would do, 

Undone. His hopes are shapes of 
sands. 

That cannot with themselves agree ; 
As one whose eager outstretched hands 

Take hold on water — so is he. 

Fame is a bauble, to his ken ; 

Mirth cannot move his aspect grim ; 
The holidays of other men 

Are only battle-days to him. 

He locks his heart within his breast, 

Believing life to such as he 
Is but a change of ills, at best, — 

A crossed and crazy tragedy. 

His cheek is wan ; his limbs are faint 
With fetters which they never wore ; 

No wheel that ever crushed a saint. 
But breaks liis body o'er and o'er. 

Though woman's grace he never sought 
By tender look, or word of praise. 

He dwells upon her in his thought, 
With all a lover's lingering phrase. 

A very martyr to the truth. 

All that 's best in him is belied ; 

Humble, yet proud withal ; in sooth 
His pride is his disdain of pride. 

He sees in what he does amiss 

A continuity of ill ; 
The next life dropping out of this, 

Stained with its many colors still. 

His kindliest pity is for those 

Who are the slaves of guilty lusts ; 

And virtue, sliining till it shows 
Another's frailt}-, he distrusts. 

rNature, he holds, since time began 

Has been reviled, — misunderstood ; 
yA.nd that we first must love a man 
\ To judge him, — be he bad or good. 



Often his path is crook'd and low. 

And is so in his own despite ; 
For still the path he meant to go 

Runs straight, and level with 

right. 



the 



No heart has he to strive with fate 
For less things than our great men 
gone 
Achieved, who, with their single weight, 
Turned Time's slow wheels a century 
on. 

His waiting silence is his prayer ; 

His darkness is his plea for light; 
And loving all men everywhere 

He lives, a more than anchorite. 

O friends, if you this man should see, 
Be not your scorn too hardly hurled, 

Believe me, whatsoe'er he be, 

There be more like him in the world. 



THE SHADOW. 

One summer night. 
The full moon, 'tired in her golden 

cloak. 
Did beckon me, I thought ; and I 
avi'oke. 
And saw a light, 

Most soft and fair. 
Shine in the brook, as if, in love's dis- 
tress. 
The parting sun had shear'd a dazzling 
tress. 
And left it there. 

Toward the sweet banks 
Of the bright stream straightly I bent 

my way ; 
And in my heart good thoughts the 
while did stay, 
Giving God thanks. 

The wheat-stocks stood 
Along the field like little fairy men, 
And mists stole, white and bashful, 
through the glen, 

As maidens would. 

In rich content 
My soul was growing toward immortal 
height, 



U 



POEMS OF THOUGHT AND FEELING. 



75 



When, lo ! I saw that by me, through 
the h'ght, 
A shadow went. 

I stopped, afraid : 
It was the bad sign of some evil done : 
That stopping, too, right swiftly did I 
run ; 

So did the shade. 

At length I drew 
Close to the bank of the delightful 

brook, 
And sitting in the moonshine, turn'd to 
look ; 
It sat there too. 

Ere long I spied 
A weed with goodly flowers upon its 

top ; 
And when I saw that such sweet things 
did drop 
Black shadows, cried, — 

Lo ! I have found. 
Hid in this ugly riddle, a good sign ; 
My life is twofold, earthly and divine, — 

Buried and crown'd. 

Sown darkly ; raised 
Light within light, when death from 

mortal soil 
Undresses me, and makes me spirit- 
ual ; — 
Dear Lord, be praised. 



THE UNWISE CHOICE. 

Two young men, when I was poor, 
Came and stood at my open door ; 

One said to me, " I have gold to give ; " 
And one, " I will love you while I 
live ! " 

My sight was dazzled ; woe 's the day ! 
And I sent the poor young man away ; 

Sent him away, I know not where, 
jVnd my heart went with him, unaware. 

He did not give me any sighs, 
But he left his picture in my eyes ; 

And in my eyes it has always beeiv : 
I have no heart to keep it in ! 



Beside the lane with hedges sweet. 
Where we parted, never more to meet. 

He pulled a flower of love's own hue. 
And where it had been came out two ! 

And in th' grass where he stood, for 

years. 
The dews of th' morning looked like 



Still smiles the house where I was born 
Among its fields of wheat and corn. 

Wheat and corn that strangers bind, — 
I reap as I sowed, and I sowed to th' 
wind. 

As one who feels the truth break through 
His dream, and knows his dream untrue, 

I live where splendors shine, and sigh, 
For the peace that splendor cannot buy ; 

Sigh for the day I was rich tho' poor. 
And saw th' two young men at my door J 



PROVIDENCE. 

" From seeming evil, still educing good." 

The stone upon the wayside seed that 

fell, 
And kept the spring rain from it, kept 

it too 
From the bird's mouth ; and in that 

silent cell 
It quickened, after many days, and 

grew, 
Till, by-and-by, a rose, a single one, 
Lifted its little face into the sun. 

It chanced a wicked man approached 

one day, 
And saw the tender piteous look it 

wore : 
Perhaps one like it somewhere far away 
Grew in a garden-bed, or by the door 
That he in childish days had played 

around. 
For his knees, trembling, sunk upon the 

ground. 

Then, o'er this piece of bleeding earth, 
the tears 
Of penitence were wrung, until at last 



76 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



The golden key of love, that sin for years 

In his unquiet soul had rusted fast, 
Was loosened, and his heart, that very 

hour. 
Opened to God's good sunshine, like a 

flower. 



THE LIVING PRESENT. 

(.Friends, let us slight no pleasant spring 
That bubbles up in life's dry sands, 
And yet be careful what good thing 
We touch with sacrilegious hands. 

Our blessings should be sought, not 
claimed, — 
Cherished, not watched with jealous 
eye ; 
Love is too precious to be named, 
Save with a reverence deep and high. 

In all that lives, exists the power 
To avenge the invasion of its right ; 

We cannot bruise and break our flower, 
And have our flower alive and bright. 

(Let us think less of what appears, — 
More of what is ; for this, hold I, 
It is the sentence no man hears 

That makes us live, or makes us die. 

Trust hearsay less ; seek more to prove 
And know if things be what they 
seem ; 
Not sink supinely in some groove. 
And hope and hope, and dream and 
dream. 

Some days must needs be full of 
gloom. 

Yet must we use them as we may ; 
Talk less about the years to come, — 

Live, love, and labor more, to-day. 

WMiat our hand findeth, do with might ; 

Ask less for help, but stand or fall. 
Each one of us, in life's great fight, 

As if himself and God were all. 



THE WEAVER'S DREAM. 

He sat all alone in his dark little room, 
His fingers aweary with work at the 
loom, 



His eyes seeing not the fine threads, fol 

the tears. 
As he carefully counted the months and 

the years 
He had been a poor weaver. 

Not a traveler went on the dusty high- 
way. 

But he thought, " He has nothing to da 
but be gay ; " 

No matter how burdened or bent he 
might be. 

The weaver believed him more happy 
than he, 
And sighed at his weaving. 

I le saw not the roses so sweet and so red 
That looked through his window ; he 

thought to be dead 
And carried away from his dark little 

room. 
Wrapt up in the linen he had in his loom, 
Were better than weaving. 

Just then a white angel came out of the 

skies, 
And shut up his senses, and sealed up 

his eyes, 
And bore him away from the work at 

his loom 
In a vision, and left him alone by the 

tomb 
Of his dear little daughter. 

" My darling ! " he cries, " what a bless- 
ing was mine ! 

How I sinned, having you, against good- 
ness divine ! 

Awake ! O my lost one, my sweet one, 
awake ! 

And I never, as long as I live, for your 
sake. 
Will sigh at my weaving ! " 

The sunset was gilding his low little 
room 

WMicn the weaver awoke from his dream 
at the loom, 

And close at his knee saw a dear little 
head 

Alight with long curls, — she was liv- 
ing, not dead, — 
His pride and his treasure. 

He winds the fine thread on his shuttle 

anew, 
(At thought of his blessing 't was easj 

to do,) 



POEMS OF THOUGHT AND FEELING. 



77 



And sings as he weaves, for the joy in 

his breast, 
Peace conieth of striving, and labor is 

rest : 
Grown wise was the weaver. 



NOT NOW. 

The path of duty I clearly trace, 
I stand with conscience face to face, 

And all her pleas allow ; 
Calling and crying the while for grace, — 
" Some other time, and some other 
place : 

Oh, not to-day ; not now ! " 

I know 't is a demon boding ill, 
I know I have power to do if I will. 
And I put my hand to th' plough ; 
1 have fair, sweet seeds in my barn, and 

lo! 
When all the furrows are ready to 
sow, 
The voice says, " Oh, not now ! " 

My peace I sell at the price of woe ; 
In heart and in spirit I suffer so. 

The anguish wrings my brow ; 
But still I linger and cry for grace, — 
" Some other time, and some other 
place : 

Oh, not to-day ; not now ! " 

I talk to my stubborn heart and say, 
The work I must do I will do to-day ; 

I will make to the I-ord a vow : 
And I will not rest and I will not sleep 
Till the vow I have vowed I rise and 
keep ; 

And the demon cries, " Not now ! " 

And so the days and the years go by. 
And so I register lie upon lie, 

And break with Heaven my vow ; 
For when I would boldly take my stand, 
This terrible demon stays my hand, — 

" Oh, not to-day : not now ! " 



CRAGS. 



And as his vision back to morn, 
And forward to the evening sped, 

He bowed himself upon his staff, 
And with his heart communing, said : 

From mystery on to mystery 

My way has been ; yet as I near 

The eternal shore, against the sky 
These crags of truth stand sharp and 
clear. 

/-- 
Where'er its hidden fountain be. 

Time is a many-colored jet 
Of good and evil, light ancl shade, 

And we evoke the things we get. 

The hues that our to-morrows wear 
Are by our yesterdays forecast ; 

Our future takes into itself 

The true impression of our past. 

The attrition of conflicting thoughts 
To clear conclusions, wears the 
groove ; 

The love that seems to die, dies not, 
But is absorbed in larger love. 

We cannot cramp ourselves unharmed, 
In bonds of iron, nor of creeds ; 

The rights that rightfully belong 
To man, are measured by his needs. 

The daisy is entitled to 

The nurture of the dew and light ; 
The green house of the grasshopper 

Is his by Nature's sacred right. 



I There was a good and reverend man 
^ Whose day of life, serene and bright. 
Was wearing hard upon the gloom . 

Beyond which we can see no light. ' 



MAN. 



In what a kingly fashion man doth 
dwell : 

He hath but to prefer 

His want, and Nature, like a servitor, 
Maketh him answer with some miracle. 

And yet his thoughts do keep along the 
ground. 
And neither leap nor run. 
Though capable to climb above the 
sun ; 
He seemeth free, and yet is strangely 
bound. 

What name would suit his cas;, or great 
or small .' 
Poor, but exceeding proud ; 



78 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



Importunate and still, humble and 
loud ; 
Most wise, and yet most ignorant, withal. 

The world that lieth in the golden air. 
Like a great emerald, 
Knoweth the law by which she is up- 
held, 
And in her motions keepeth steady 
there. 

^But in his foolishness proud man defies 
The law, wherewith is bound 
The peace he seeks, and fluttering 
moth-like round 
Some dangerous light, experimenting, 
dies. 

And all his subtle reasoning can obtain 

To tell his fortune by. 

Is only that he liveth and must die, 
And dieth jn the hope to live again. 



TO SOLITUDE. 

I AM weary of the working. 

Weary of the long day's heat ; 
To thy comfortable bosom, 

Wilt thou take me, spirit sweet ? 

Weary of the long, blind struggle 
For a pathway bright and high, — 

Weary of the dimly dying 

Hopes that never quite all die. 

Weary searching a bad cipher 
For a good that must be meant ; 

Discontent with being weary, — 
Weary with my discontent. 

I am weary of the trusting 

Where my trusts but torments 
prove ; 
Wilt thou keep faith with me ? wilt 
thou 
Be my true and tender love ? 

I am weary drifting, driving 
Like a helmless bark at sea ; 

Kindly, comfortable spirit, 
Wilt thou give thyself to me ? 

Give thy birds to sing me sonnets ? 

Give thy winds my cheeks to kiss } 
And thy mossy rocks to stand for 

The memorials of our bliss ? 



I in reverence will hold thee. 
Never vexed with jealous ills, 

Though thy wild and wimpling waters 
Wind about a thousand hills. 



THE LAW OF LIBERTY. 

This extent hath freedom's ground,— 
In my freedom I am bound 
Never any soul to wound. 

Not my own : it is not mine. 

Lord, except to make it thine. 

By good works through grace divine. 

Not another's : Thou alone 
Keepest judgment for thine own; 
Only unto Thee is known 

What to pity, what to blame ; 
How the fierce temptation came : 
What is honor, what is shame. 

Right is bound in this — to win 
Good till injury begin ; 
That, and only that, is sin. 

Selfish good may not befall 
Any man, or great or small ; 
Best for one is best for all. 

And who vainly doth desire 
Good through evil to acquire, 
In his bosom taketh fire. 

Wronging no man. Lord, nor Thee 
Vexing, I do pray to be 
In my soul, my body, free. 

Free to freely leave behind 
When the better things I find, 
Worser things, howe'er enshrined. 

So that pain may peace enhance. 

And through every change and chancq 

I upon myself, advance. 



MY CREED. 

I HOLD that Christian grace abounds 
Where charity is seen ; that when 

We climb to Heaven, 't is on tho 
rounds 
Of love to men. 



POEMS OF THOUGHT AND FEELIAG. 



79 



I hold all else, named piety, 
A selfish scheme, a vain pretence ; 

Where centre is not — can there be 
Circumference ? 

This I moreover hold, and dare 

Affirm where'er my rhyme may go — 

Whatever things be sweet or fair, 
Love makes them so. 

Whether it be the lullabies 

That charm to rest the nursling bird, 
Or that sweet confidence of sighs 

And blushes, made without a word. 

Whether the dazzling and the flush 
Of softly sumptuous garden bowers, 

Or by some cabin door, a bush 
Of ragged flowers. 

'T is not the wide phylactery. 

Nor stubborn fast, nor stated prayers. 

That make us saints : we judge the tree 
By what it bears. 

(\And when a man can live apart 
From works, on theologic trust, 
I know the blood about his heart 
Is dry as dust. 



OPEN SECRETS. 

The truth lies round about us, all 
Too closely to be sought, — 

So open to our vision that 
'T is hidden to our thought. 

We know not what the glories 
Of the grass, the flower, may be ; 

We needs must struggle for the sight 
Of what we always see. 

Waiting for storms and whirlwinds. 
And to have a sign appear, 

We deem not God is speaking in 
The still small voice we hear. 

In reasoning proud, blind leaders of 
The blind, through life we go, 

And do not know the things we see, 
Nor see the things we know. 

Single and indivisible, 

We pass from change to change, 
Familiar with the strangest things, 

And with familiar, strange. 



We make the light through which we 
see 

The light, and make the dark : 
To hear the lark sing, we must be 

At heaven's gate with the lark. 



THE SADDEST SIGHT. 

As one that leadeth a blind man 

In a city, to and fro. 

Thought, even so, 
Leadeth me still wherever it will 

Through scenes of joy and woe. 

I have seen Lear, his white head 
crowned 
With poor straws, playing King ; 
And, wearying 
Her cheeks' young flowers " with true- 
love showers," 
I have heard Ophelia sing. 

I have been in battles, and I have seen 
Stones at the martyrs hurled, — 
Seen th' flames curled 

Round foreheads bold, and lips whence 
rolled 
The Litanies of the world. 

But of all sad sights that ever I saw. 

The saddest under the sun. 

Is a little one, 
Whose poor pale face was despoiled of 
grace 

Ere yet its life begun. 

No glimpse of the good green Nature 
■ To gladden with sweet surprise 

The staring eyes. 
That only have seen, close walls be- 
tween, 

A hand-breadth of the skies. 

Ah, never a bird is heard to sing 
At the windows under ground, 
The long year round ; 

There, never the morn on her pipes of 
corn 
Maketh a cheerful sound. 

Oh, little white cloud of witnesses 

Against your parentage, 

Mav Heaven assuage 
The woes that wait on your dark es 
tate, — 

Unorphaned orphanage. 



8o 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



THE BRIDAL HOUR. 

" The moon's gray tent is up : another 
hour. 
And yet another one will bring the 
time 
To which, through many cares and 
checks, so slowly, 
The golden day did climb. 

" Take all the books away, and let no 
noises 
Be in the house while softly I undress 
My soul from broideries of disguise, 
and wait for 
My own true love's caress. 

"The sweetest sound will tire to-night; 
the dewdrops 
Setting the green ears in the corn 
and wheat, 
Would make a discord in the heart 
attuned to 
The bridegroom's coming feet. 

" Love ! blessed Love ! if we could 
hang our walls with 
The splendors of a thousand rosy 
Mays, 
Surely they would not shine so well as 
thou dost. 
Lighting our dusty days. 

" Without thee, what a dim and woeful 
story 
Our years would be, oh, excellence 
sublime ! 
Sli]) of the life eternal, brightly growing 
In the low soil of time ! " 



IDLE. 

I HEARD the gay spring coming, 
I saw the clover blooming. 

Red and white along the meadows ; 

Red and white along the streams ; 
I heard the bluebird singing, 
I saw th.e green grass springing, 

All as I lay a-dreaming, — 

A-dreaming idle dreams. 

I heard the ploughman's whistle, 

I saw the rough burr thistle 

In the sharp teeth of the harrow, — 
Saw the summer's yellow gleams 



In the walnuts, in the fennel, 

In the mulleins, lined with flannel, 

All as I lay a-dreaming, — 

A-dreaming idle dreams. 

I felt the warm, bright weather ; 
Saw the harvest, — saw them gather 

Corn and millet, wheat and apples,— 

Saw the gray barns with their seams 
Pressing wide, — the bare-armed shear- 
ers, — 
The ruddy water-bearers, — 

All as I lay a-dreaming, — 

A-dreaming idle dreams. 

The bluebird and her nestling 
Flew away ; the leaves fell rustling, 

The cold rain killed the roses. 

The sun withdrew his beams ; 
No creature cared about me, 
The world could do without me. 

All as I lay a-dreaming, — 

A-dreaming idle dreams. 



GOD IS LOVE. 

(Ah, there are mighty things under the 
sun, 
Great deeds have been acted, great 
words have been said. 
Not just uplifting some fortunate one, 
But lifting up all men the more by a 
head. 

Aye, the more by the head, and the 
shoulders too ! 
Ten thousand may sin, and a thou- 
sand may fall. 
And it may have been me, and it yet 
may be you, 
But the angel in one proves the ange) 
in all. 

And whatever is mighty, whatever is 
high. 
Lifting men, lifting women their nat- 
ures above, 
And close to the kinship they hold to 
the sky, 
Why, this I affirm, that its essence is 
Love. 

The poorest, the meanest has right to 
his share — 
For the life of his heart, for the 
strength of his hand, " 



POEMS OF THOUGHT AND FEELING. 



;i 



'T is the sinew of work, 't is the spirit 
of prayer — 
And here, and God help me, I take 
up my stand. 

No pain but it hushes to peace in its 
arms, 
No pale cheek it cannot with kisses 
make bright. 
Its wonder of splendors has made the 
world's storms 
To shine as with rainbows, since first 
there was light. 

Go, bring me whatever the poets have 
praised, 
The mantles of queens, the red roses 
of -May, 
I '11 match them, I care not how grandly 
emblazed, 
With the love of the beggar who sits 
by the way. 

When I think of the gifts that have 
honored Love's shrine — 
Heart, hope, soul, and body, all mor- 
tal can give — 
For the sake of a passion superbly 
divine, 
I am glad, nay, and more, I am proud 
that I live ! 

Fair women have made them espousals 
with death. 
And through the white flames as 
through lilies have trod, 
And men have with cloven tongues 
preached for their faith. 
And held up their hands stiff with 
thumb-screws, to God. 

I have seen a great people its vantage 
defer 
To the love that can move it as love 
only can, 
A whole nation stooping with con- 
science astir 
To a chattel with crop ears, and call- 
ing it man. 

Compared, O my beautiful Country, to 
thee, 
In this tenderest touch of the mana- 
cled hand. 
The tops of the pyramids sink to the 
sea. 
And the thrones of the earth slide to- 
gether like sand. 
6 



Immortal with beauty and vital with 
youth, 
Thou standest, O Love, as thou al- 
ways hast stood 
From the wastes of the ages, proclaim- 
ing this truth, 
All peoples and nations are made of 
one blood. 

Ennobled by scoffing and honored by 
shame, 
The chiefest of great ones, the crown 
and the head, 
Attested by miracles done in thy name 
For the blind, for the lame, for the 
sick and the dead. 

Because He in all things was tempted 
like me. 
Through the sweet human hope, by 
the cross that He bore, 
For the love which so much to the 
Marys could be, 
Christ Jesus the man, not the God, I 
adore. 



LIFE'S MYSTERIES. 

Round and round the wheel doth run, 
And now doth rise, and now doth 
fall; 

How many lives we live in one, 
And how much less than one, in all ! 

The past as present as to-day — 

How strange, how wonderful ! it 
seems 

A player playing in a play, 

A dreamer dreaming that he dreams ! 

But when the mind through devious 
glooms 

Drifts onward to the dark amain, 
Her wand stern Conscience reassumes. 

And holds us to ourselves again. 

Vague reminiscences come back 

Of things we seem, in part, to have 
known. 

And Fancy pieces what they lack 
With shreds and colors all her own. 

Fancy, whose wing so high can soar, 
Whose vision hath so broad a glance. 

We feel sometimes as if no more 
Amenable to change and chance. 



82 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



And yet, one tiny thread being broke — 
One idol taken from our hands, 

The eternal hills roll up like smoke. 
The earth's foundations shake like 
sands ! 

Ah ! how the colder pulse still starts 
To think of that one hour sublime, 

We hugged heaven down into our 
hearts. 
And clutched eternity in time ! 

When love's dear eyes first looked in 
ours, 
When love's dear brows were strange 
to frowns. 
When all the stars were burning flow- 
ers 
That we might pluck and wear for 
crowns. 

We cannot choose but cry and cry — 
Oh, that its joys we might repeat ! 

When just its mutability 

Made all the sweetness of it sweet. 

Close to the precipice's brink 

We press, look down, and, while we 
quail 
From the bad thought we dare not 
think, 
Lift curiously the awful vail. 

We do the thing we would not do — 
Our wills being set against our wills, 

And suffer o'er and o'er anew 
The penalty our peace that kills. 

Great God, we know not what we know 
Or what we are, or are to be ! 

We only trust we cannot go 

Through sin's disgrace outside of thee. 

And trust that though we are driven in 
And forced upon thy name to call 

At last, by very strength of sin. 
Thou wilt have mercy on us all ! 



We are the mariners, and God the 
Sea, 
And though we make false reckonings, 
and run 
Wide of a righteous course, and are un- 
done, 
Out of his deeps of love we cannot 
be. 



For by those heavy strokes we misname 
ill. 
Through the fierce fire of sin, though 
tempering doubt. 
Our natures more and more are beaten 
out 
To perfecter reflections of his will ! 



The best man should never pass by 
The worst, but to brotherhood true. 

Entreat him thus gently, " Lo, I 
Am tempted in all things as you." 

Of one dust all peoples are made. 
One sky doth above them extend, 

And whether through sunshine or shade 
Their paths run, they meet at the end. 

And whatever his honors may be, — 
Of riches, or genius, or blood, 

God never made any man free 
To find out a separate good. 



PLEDGES. 

Sometimes the softness of the embrac- 
ing air. 
The tender beauty of the grass and 
sky. 
The look of still repose the mountains 
wear, 
The sea-waves that beside each other 
lie 
Contented in the sun — the flowery 
gleams 
Of gardens by the doors of cottages. 
The sweet, delusive blessedness of 
dreams. 
The pleasant murmurs of the forest 
trees 
Clinging to one another — all I see. 

And hear, and all that fancy paints, 
Do touch me with a deep humility, 
And make me be ashamed of my com- 
plaints. 
Then, in my meditations, I resolve 

That I will never, while I live, again 
Ruffle the graceful ministries of love 
With brows distrustful, or with wishes 
vain. 
Then I make pledges to my heart and 
say 
We two will live serener lives hence- 
forth ; 
For what is all the outward beautj 
worth, 



POEMS OF THOUGHT AND FEELING. 



83 



The golden opening of the sweetest 
day 
That ever shone, if we arise to hide, 
Not from ourselves, but from men's 
eyes away, 
The last night's petulance unpacified ! 



PROVERBS IN RHYME. 

Time makes us eagle-eyed : 

Our fantasies befriend us in our youth, 
And build the shadowy tents wherein 
we hide 

Out of the glare of truth. 

Make no haste to despise 
The proud of spirit : ofttimes pride 
but is 
An armor worn to shield from insolent 
eyes 
Our human weaknesses. 

Be slow to blame his course 

Or name him coward who disdains to 
fight : 
Courage is just a blind impelling force, 

And often wrong as right. 

Condemn not her whose hours 

Are not all given to spinning nor to 
care : 
Has not God planted every path with 
flowers 
Whose end is to be fair ? 

Think not that he is cold 

Who runneth not your proffered hand 
to touch : 
On feeling's heights 't is wise the step to 
hold 
From trembling overmuch ; 

And though its household sweets 

Affection may through daily channels 
give. 

The heart is chary, and ecstatic beats 
Once only while we live. 



FAME. 



And dragging this or that_man down 

Will not raise you the higher ! 
Fear not too much the open seas, 

Nor yet yourself misdoubt ; 
Clear the bright wake of geniuses, 

Then steadily steer out. 
That wicked men in league should be 

To push your craft aside. 
Is not the hint of modesty. 

But the poor conceit of pride. 



Fame guards the wreath we call a 
crown 
With other wreaths of fire, 



GENIUS. 

/A CUNNING and curious splendor, 

That glorifies commonest things — 
Palissy, with clay from the river. 
Moulds cups for the tables of kings. 

A marvel of sweet and wise madness. 
That passes our skill to define ; 

It clothes the poor peasant with grand- 
eur, 
And turns his rude hut to a shrine. 

Full many a dear little daisy 

Had passed from the light of the sun. 
Ere Burns, with his pen and his plough- 
share. 

Upturned and immortalled that one. 

And just with a touch of its magic 
It gives to the poet's rough rhyme 

A someikiiigXhdX makes the world listen, 
And will, to the ending of time: 

It puts a great price upon shadows — 
Holds visions, all rubies above. 

And shreds of old tapestries pieces 
To legends of glory and love. 

The ruin it builds into beauty. 
Uplifting the low-lying towers. 

Makes green the waste place with a 
garden. 
And shapes the dead dust into flowers. 

It shows us the lovely court ladies, 
All shining in lace and brocade ; 

The knights, for their gloves who did 
battle, 
In terrible armor arrayed. 

It gives to the gray head a glory. 
And grace to the eyelids that weep, 

And makes our last enemy even. 
To be as the brother of sleep. 



84 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



A marvel of madness celestial, 
That causes the weed at our feet, 

The thistle that grows at the wayside, 
To somehow look strange and be 
sweet. 

No heirs hath it, neither ancestry ; 

But just as it listeth, and when, 
It seals with its own royal signet 

The foreheads of women and men. 



IN BONDS. 

While shines the sun, the storm even 
then 
Has struck his bargain with the sea — 
Oh, lives of women, lives of men, 

How pressed, how poor, how pinched 
ye be ! 

It is as if, having granted power 

Almost omnipotent to man, 
Heaven grudged the splendor of the 
dower. 

And going back upon her plan. 

Mortised his free feet in the ground. 
Closed him in walls of ignorance. 

And all the soul within him bound 
In the dull hindrances of sense. 

Hence, while he goads his will to rise, 
As one his fallen ox might urge, 

The conflict of the impatient cries 
Within him wastes him like a 
scourge. 

Even as dreams his days depart, 

His work no sure foundation forms, 

Immortal yearnings in his heart, 
And empty shadows in his arms ! 

It is as if, being come to land. 

Some pestilence, with fingers black, 

Loosed from the wheel the master hand 
And drove the homesick vessel back ; 

As if the nurslings of his care 

Chilled him to death with their em- 
brace ; 
As if that she he held most fair 

Turned round and mocked him to 
his face. 

And thus he stands, and ever stands, 
Tempted without and torn within ; 



Ashes of ashes in his hands, 

Famished and faint, and sick with 
sin. 

Seeing the cross, and not the crown ; 
The o'erwhelming flood, and not the 
ark ; 
Till gap by gap his faith throws down 
Its guards, and leaves him to the 
dark. 

And when the last dear hope has fled. 
And all is weary, dreary pain. 

That enemy, most darkly dread. 
Grows pitiful, and snaps the chain. 



NOBILITY. 

'True worth is in being, not seeming,— * 

In doing each day that goes by 
Some little good — not in the dreaming 

Of great things to do by and by. 
For whatever men say in blindness, 

And spite of the fancies of youth. 
There 's nothing so kingly as kindness, 

And nothing so royal as truth. 

We get back our mete as we measure — 

We cannot do wrong and feel right, 
Nor can we give pain and gain pleasure. 

For justice avenges each slight. 
The air for the wing of the sparrow. 

The bush for the robin and wren. 
But alway the path that is narrow 

And straight, for the children of men, 

'T is not in the pages of story 

The heart of its ills to beguile, 
Though he who makes courtship to 
glory 

Gives all that he hath for her smile. 
For when from her heights he has won 
her, 

Alas ! it is only to prove 
That nothing 's so sacred as honor. 

And nothing so loyal as love ! 

We cannot make bargains for blisses. 

Nor catch them like fishes in nets ; 
And sometimes the thing our life misses, 

Helps more than the thing which it 
gets. 
For good lieth not in pursuing. 

Nor gaining of great nor of small, 
But just in the doing, and doing 

As we would be done by, is all. 



POEMS OF THOUGHT AND FEELING. 



85 



Through envy, through malice, through 
hating, 

Against tlie world, early and late. 
No jot of our courage abating — 

Our part is to work and to wait. 
And slight is the sting of his trouble 

Whose winnings are less than his 
worth ; 
For he who is honest is noble. 

Whatever his fortunes or birth. 



TO THE MUSE. 

Thantoms come and crowd me thick. 
And my heart is sick, so sick ; 
Kindnesses no more refresh 
Brain nor body, mind nor flesh. 
Good Muse, sweet Muse, comfort me 
With thy heavenly company. 

Thieves beset me on my way. 
Day and night and night and day, 
Stealing all the lovely light 
That did make my dreams so bright. 
Good Muse, sweet Muse, hide my 

treasures 
High among immortal pleasures. 

Friendship's watch is weary grown. 
And I lie alone, alone ; 
Love against me flower-like closes. 
Blushing, opening toward the roses. 
Good Muse, sweet Muse, keep my friend 
To the sad and sunless end. 

Oh, the darkness of the estate 
Where I, stript and bleeding, wait. 
Torn with thorns and with wild woe, 
In my house of dust so low ! 
Good Muse, sweet Muse, make my faith 
Strong to triumph over death. 

Rock me both at morns and eves 
In a cradle lined with leaves — 
Light as winds that stir the willows 
Stir my hard and heavy pillows. 
Good Muse, sweet Muse, rock me soft, 
Till my thoughts soar all aloft. 

Seal my eyes from earthly things 
With the shadow of thy wings. 
Fill with songs the wildering spaces, 
Till I see the old, old faces, 
Rise forever, on forever — 
Good Muse, sweet Muse, it'ave mc 
never. 



Her voice was sweet and low ; her face 
No words can make appear. 

For it looked out of heaven but long 
enough 
To leave a shadow here. 

And I only knew that I saw the face, 

And saw the shadow fall. 
And that she carried my heart away 

And keeps it ; that is all. 



NO RING. 

What is it that doth spoil the fair adorn- 
ing 
With which her body she would dig- 
nify, 
When from her bed she rises in the 
morning 
To comb, and plait, and tie 
Her hair with ribbons, colored like the 
sky.' 

What is it that her pleasure discom- 
poses 
When she would sit and sing the sun 
away — 
Making her see dead roses in red roses. 

And in the downfall gray 
A blight that seems the world to over- 
lay.? 

What is it makes the trembling look of 
trouble 
About her tender mouth and eyelids 
fair ? 
Ah me, ah me ! she feels her heart beat 
double. 
Without the mother's prayer, 
And her wild fears are more than she 
can bear. 

To the poor sightless lark new powers 
are given. 
Not only with a golden tongue to 
sing. 
But still to make her wavering way to- 
ward heaven 
With undiscerning wing ; 
But what to her doth her sick sorrow 
bring .'' 

Her days she turns, and yet keeps over- 
turning, 
And her flesh shrinks as if she felt the 
rod : 



86 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



For 'gainst her will she thinks hard 
things concerning 
The everlasting God, 
And longs to be insensate like the clod. 

Sweet Heaven, be pitiful ! rain down 
upon her 
The saintly charities ordained for 
such ; 
She was so poor in everything but honor, 
And she loved much — loved much ! 
Would, Lord, she had thy garment's 
hem to touch. 

Haply, it was the hungry heart within 
her, 
The woman's heart, denied its natural 
right. 
That made her the thing men call sinner, 

Even in her own despite : 
Lord, that her judges might receive their 
sight ! 



TEXT AND MORAL. 

Full early in that dewy time of year 
When wheat and barley fields are gay 

and green. 
And when the flag uplifts his dull gray 

spear. 
And cowslips in their yellow coats are 

seen. 
And every grass-tuft by the common 

ways 
Holdeth some red-mouthed flower to 

give it praise : 

Just as the dawn was at that primal hour 
That brings such tender golden sweet- 
ness in, 
Ere yet the sun had left his eastern bower 
And set upon the hills his rounded 
chin, 
i heard a little song — three notes — not 

more — 
Plained like a low petition at my door. 

And all that day and other days I heard 
The same low asking note, and then I 
found 
My beggar in the likeness of a bird. 
Surely, I said, she hideth some deep 
wound 
Under the speckled beauty of her wing, 
That she doth seem to rather cry than 
sing. 



Haply some treacherous man, and evil> 

eyed, 
Hath spoiled her nest or snared her 

lovely mate, 
But while I spoke, a bird unharmed I 

spied 
High in the elm-top, all his heart elate, 
And splitting with its joy his shining 

bill. 
Unmindful of that low, sad " trill-a- 

trill ! " 

At sunset came my boys with cheeks 
ablush. 
And fairly flying on their arms and 
legs. 

To tell that they had found within a bush 
A bird's-nest, lined with little rose- 
leaf eggs ! 

Then, inly musing, I renewed my quest 

Knowing that no bird singeth on her 
nest. 

And still, the softest morns, the sweet- 
est eves, 
And when from out the midnight blue 
and still. 

The tender moon looked in between the 
leaves, 
That little, plaining, pleading trill-a- 
trill ! 

Would tremble out, and fall away, and 
fade, 

And so I mused and mused, until I made 

A text at last of the melodious cry, 
And drew this moral (was it fetched 

too far ?) 
Life's inequalities so underlie 

The things we have, so rest in what 

we are, 
That each must steadfast to his nature 

keep. 
And one must soar and sing, and one 

mast weep. 



TO MY FRIEND. 

If we should see one sowing seed 

With patient care and toil and pain, 
Then to some other garden speed 
And sow again ; 

And so right on from day to day. 

And so right on through months and 
years. 



POEMS OF THOUGHT AND FEELING. 



^7 



tVaten'ng the furrows all the way 
With rain of tears ; 

Ne'er gladdened by the yellowing top 

Of harvest, nor of ripened rose, 
Till suddenly the plough should stop, — 
The work-day close ; 

Should we not, as the day ran by. 

Wonder to see him take no ease, 
And cry at ni£;htfall, " Vanity 
Of Vanities ! " 

And yet 't is thus, my friend, the hours 

And days go by, with you and me. 
We, too, are sowing seeds of flowers 
We never see. 

Sometimes we sow in soil of sin ; 

Sometimes where choking thorns 
abound ; 
And sometimes cast our good seed in 
Dry, stony ground. 

Our stalks spring up and fade and die 

Under the burning noontide heat, 
And hopes and plans about us lie 
All incomplete ; 

And as the toilsome days go by 
Unrespited with flowery ease, 
Angels may cry out, " Vanity 
Of Vanities ! " 

Oh, when, fruitionless, the night 
Descends upon our day of ills, 
God grant we find our harvests white 
On heavenly hills. 



ONE OF MANY. 

Because I have not done the things I 
know 
I ought to do, my very soul is sad ; 
And furthermore, because that I have 
had 
Delights that should have made to over- 
flow 
My cup of gladness, and have not been 
glad. 

Ml in the midst of plenty, poor I live ; 
My house, my friend, with heavy heart 

I see. 
As if that mine they were not meant 

to be ; 



For of the sweetness of the things I 
have 
A churlish conscience dispossesses 
me. 

I do desire, nay, long, to put my powers 
To better service than I yet have 

done — 
Not hither, thither, without purpose 
run. 
And gather just a handful of the flow- 
ers. 
And catch a little sunlight of the 
sun. 

Lamenting all the night and all the 
day 
Occasion lost, and losing in lament 
The golden chances that I know were 
meant 
For wiser uses — asking overpay 

When nothing has been earned, and 
all was lent. 

Keeping in dim and desolated ways. 
And where the wild winds whistle 

loud and shrill 
Through leafless bushes, and the birds 
are still, 
And where the lights are lights of other 
days — 
A sad insanity o'ermastering will. 

And saddest of the sadness is to 

know 
It is not fortune's fault, but only 

mine. 
That far away the hills of roses 

shine — 
And far away the pipes of pleasure 

blow — 
That we, and not our stars, our fates 

assign. 



LIGHT. 



Be not much troubled about many 

things, 
Fear often hath no whit of substance in it, 

And lives but just a minute ; 
While from the very snow the wheat- 
blade springs. 
And light is like a flower, 
That bursts in full leaf from the darkest 
hour. 
And He who made the night. 



88 



Made, too, the flowery sweetness of the 

light. 
Be it thy task, through his good grace, 

to win it. 



THE POEMS OE ALICE GARY. 

For, wrapped within this truth, another 



TRUST. 



Sometimes when hopes have vanished, 

one and all, 
Soft lights drop round about me in 

their stead. 
As if there had been cast across 

Heaven's wall 
Handfuls of roses down upon my 

bed; 
Then through my darkness pleasures 

come in crowds. 
Shining like larks' wings in the sombre 

clouds. 

And I am fed with sweetness, as of dew 
Strained through the leaves of pansies 
at day dawn ; 

But not the flowery lights that over- 
strew 
The bed my weary body rests upon. 

Is it that maketh all my house so 
bright. 

And feedeth all my soul with such de- 
light. 

Nay, ne'er could heavenly, veritable 
flowers 
Make the rude time to run so smoothly 
by, 

And tie with amity the alien hours. 
As might some maiden, with her rib- 
bon, tie 

A bunch of homely posies into one. 

Making all fair, when none were fair 
alone. 

But lying disenchanted of my fear, 
'Neath the gold borders of my " cover- 
lid " 
So overstrown, I feel my flesh so near 

Things lovely, that, mv body being hid 
Out of the sunshine, shall not harm en- 
dure, 
But mix with daisies, and grow fair and 
pure. 

Oh, comfortable thought ! yet not of 
this 
Get I the peace that drieth all my 
tears ; J 



Sweeter and stronger to dispel my 

fears : 
If through its change my flesh shall 

death defy 
Surely my soul shall not be left to die. 

Our God, who taketh knowledge of the 
flowers 
Making our bodies change to things 
so fine, 

Knoweth the insatiate longings that are 
ours. 
For fadeless blooms and suns that al- 
ways shine. 

His name is Love, and love can work 
no ill ; 

Hence, though He slay me, I will trust 
Him still. 



LIFE. 



Solitude — Life is inviolate solitude — 
Never was truth so apart from the 

dreaming 
As lieth the selfhood inside of the 
seeming. 
Guarded with triple shield out of all 
quest. 
So that the sisterhood nearest and 

sweetest. 
So that the brotherhood kindest, com- 
pletest. 
Is but an exchanging of signals at best. 

Desolate — Life is so dreary and deso- 
late — 
Women and men in the crowd meet 

and mingle, 
Yet with itself every soul standeth 
single. 
Deep out of sympathy moaning its 
moan — 
Holding and having its brief exulta- 
tion — 
Making its lonesome and low lamen- 
tation — 
Fighting its terrible conflicts alone. 

Separate — Life is so sad and so sep- 
arate — 

Under love's ceiling with roses for 
lining, 

Heart mates with heart in a tendel 
entwining. 



A 



POEMS OF THOUGHT AND FEELING. 



89 



Tet never the sweet cup of love filleth 
full — 
Eye looks in eye with a questioning 

wonder, 
Why are we thus in our meeting 
asunder ? 
Why are our pulses so slow and so 
dull ? 

Fruitless, fruitionless — Life is fruition- 
less — 
Never the heaped up and generous 

measure — 
Never the substance of satisfied pleas- 
ure — 
Never the moment with rapture elate — 
But draining the chalice, we long for 

the chalice, 
And live as an alien inside of our 
palace, 
Bereft of our title and deeds of estate. 

Pitiful — Life is so poor and so piti- 
ful- 
Cometh the cloud on the goldenest 

weather — 
Briefly the man and his youth stay to- 
gether — 
Falleth the frost ere the harvest is in, 
And conscience descends from the 

open aggression 
To timid and troubled and tearful 
concession. 
And downward and down into parley 
with sin. 

Purposeless — Life is so wayward and 
purposeless — 
Always before us the object is shift- 
ing. 
Always the means and the method 
are drifting, 
We rue what is done — what is undone 
deplore — 
More striving for high things than 

things that are holy. 
And so we go down to the valley so 
lowlv 
Wherein there is work, and device never 
more. 



Whether in feasting and whether in 

fasting, 
But for our faith in the Love ever' 

lasting, — 
But for the life that is better than life. 



PLEA FOR CHARITY. 

If one had never seen the full complete- 
ness 
Of the round year, but tarried half the 
way. 
How should he guess the fair and flow- 
ery sweetness 
That Cometh with the May — 
Guess of the bloom, and of the rainy 
sweetness 
That come in with the May ! 

Suppose he had but heard the winds 
a-blowing. 
And seen the brooks in icy chains 
fast bound, 
How should he guess that waters in 
their flowing 
Could make so glad a sound — 
Guess how their silver tongues should 
be set going 
To such a tuneful sound ! 

Suppose he had not seen the bluebirds 
winging. 
Nor seen the day set, nor the morning 
rise, 
Nor seen the golden balancing and 
swinging 
Of the gay butterflies — 
Who could paint April pictures, worth 
the bringing 
To notice of his eyes .'' 

Suppose he had not seen the living dai- 
sies. 
Nor seen the rose, so glorious and 
bright, 
Were it not belter than your far-off 
praises 
Of all their lovely light. 
To give his hands the holding of the 
daisies, 
And of the roses bright ? 



Vanity, vanity — all would be vanity, 
Whether in seeking oi getting our 

pleasures — I 

Whether in spending or hoarding our O Christian man, deal gently with the 
treasures — 
Whether in indolence, whether in 
strife — 



smner — 
Think what an utter wintry waste is 
his 



90 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



Whose heart of love has never been the 
winner, 

To know how sweet it is — 
Be pitiful, O Christian, to the sinner, 

Think what a world is his ! 

He never heard the lisping and the 
trembling 
Of Eden's gracious leaves about his 
head — 
His mirth is nothing but the poor dis- 
sembling 
Of a great soul unfed — 
Oh, bring him where the Eden-leaves 
are trembling, 
And give him heavenly bread. 

As Winter doth her shriveled branches 
cover 
With greenness, knowing spring-time's 
soft desire, 
Even so the soul, knowing Jesus for a 
lover. 
Puts on a new attire — 
A garment fair as snow, to meet the 
Lover 
Who bids her come up higher. 



SECOND SIGHT. 

My thoughts, I fear, run less to right 
than wrong. 
And I am selfish, sinful, being human ; 
But yet sometimes an impulse sweet 
and strong 
Touches my heart, for I am still a 
woman ; 
And yesterday, beside my cradle sitting. 
And broidering lilies through my 
lullabies. 
My heart stirred in me, just as if the 
flitting 
Of some chance angel toudied me, 
and my eyes 
Filled all at once to tender overflow- 

And my song ended — breaking up 

in sighs ; 
I could not see the lilies I was sewing 
For the hot tears, thick coming to my 

eyes. 

The unborn years, like rose-leaves in a 

flame, 
Shriveled together, and this vision 

came, 



For I was gifted with a second seeing : 
'T was night, and darkly terrible with 

storms. 
And I beheld my cherished darling flee- 
ing 
In all her lily broideries from my 

arms — 
A babe no longer. Wild the wind was 

blowing. 
And the snows round her soddened as 

they fell ; 
And when a whisper told me she was 

going 
That way wherein the feet take hold 

on hell, 
I could not cry, I could not speak nor 

stir, 
Held in mute torture by my love of her. 

We make the least ado o'er greatest 
troubles ; 
Our very anguish doth our anguish 
drown ; 
The sea forms only just a few faint 
bubbles 
Of stifled breathing when a ship goea 
down. 

'T was but a moment — then the merry 

laughter 
Of my sweet baby on the nurse's 

knee 
Tlippled across the mists of fantasy ; 
And sunshine, stretching like a golden 

rafter 
From cornice on to cornice o'er my 

head, 
Scattered the darkness, and my vision 

fled. 

Times fall when Fate just misses of 
her blows, 
And, being warned, the victim slips 
aside ; 
And thus it was with me — the idle 
shows. 
The foolish pomp of vanity and 
pride, 
The work of cunning hands and curious 

looms, 
Shining about my house like poppy- 
blooms, 
Like poppy-blooms had drowsed me, 
heart and brain ; 
And all the currents of my blood were 
setting 
To that bad dullness that is worse 
than pain. 



POEMS OF THOUGHT AND FEELING. 



91 



The moth will spoil the garment with 

its fretting 
Surer and faster than the work-day 

wear. 
The quickening vision came — not all 

too late : 
I saw that there were griefs for me to 

share, 
And the poor worldling missed the 

worldling's fate. 

There was my baby — there was I, the 
mother, 
Broidering my lilies by the golden 
gleam 
Of the glad sunshine ; but was there no 
other 
Fleeing, as fled the phantom in my 
dream 1 
Were there no hearts, because of their 

great loving, 
Bound to the wheel of torture past all 
moving ? 
No storms of awful sorrow to be 

stemmed .' 
Yea, out of my own heart I stood 
condemned. 

Leaving the silken splendor of my 

rooms, 
The sunshine stretching like a golden 

rafter 
From cornice on to cornice, and the 

laughter 
Of my sweet baby on the nurse's knee, 
Calling me back, and almost keeping 

me — 
Leaving my windows bright with flow- 
ery blooms, 
I passed adown my broad emblazoned 

hall. 
Along the soft mats, tufted thick'across — 
Scarlet and green, like roses grown with 

moss ; 
And parting from my pleasures, one 

and all. 
Threaded my way thro.ugh many a nar- 
row street. 
From whose low cellars, lit with 

scanty embers. 
Came great-eyed children, with bare, 

shivering feet, 
A.nd wondered at me, through the doors 

gaped wide. 
Till they were crowded back, or pushed 

aside, 
By some lean-elbowed man, or flabby 

crone, 



Upon whose foreheads discontent had 
grown, 
As grows the mildew on decaying 
timbers. 

" All thine is mine," came to me from 

the fall 
Of every beggar's footstep, and the 

glooms 
That hung around held yet this other 

call : 
" Who to himself lives only is not liv- 
ing ; 
He hath no gain who does not get by 

giving." 
And so I came beneath the cold gray 

wall 
That shapes the awful prison of the 

Tombs. 
Humility had been my gentle guide — 
I saw her not, a heavenly spirit she — ■ 
And when the fearful door swung open 

wide 
I heard her pleasant steps go in with 

me. 

Oh for a tongue, and oh ! for words to 
tell 
Of the young creature, masked with 
sinful guise. 
That stood before me in her narrow cell 
And dragged my heart out with her 
pleading eyes. 

I shook from head to foot, and could not 
stir — 

Afraid, but not so much afraid of her 

As of myself — made like her — of one 
dust, 

And holding an immortal soul in trust 

The same as she — perhaps not even so 
good, 

Tempted with her temptations. Was 't 
for me 

To hold myself apart and call her sin- 
ner .' 

Not so ; and silent, face to face we 
stood. 

And as some traveler in the night be- 
lated 

Waits for the star he knows must rise, 
so I 

Patient within the prison darkness 
waited. 

Trusting to see the better self within 
her 

Rise from the ruins of her woman- 
hood. 



92 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



Nor did I wait in vain. At last, at 

last, 
Her eager hand reached forth and held 

me fast, 
And drawing just a little broken 

breath, 
As if she stood upon that narrow ground 
That lies a-tremble betwixt life and 

death, 
Her yearning, fearful soul expression 

found : 

" I 'm dying — dying, and your dewy 

hand 
Is like the shadow to the sickly 

plant 
Whose root is in the dry and burning 

sand. 
Pity, sweet Pity — that is what I 

want. 
You bring it — ah ! you would not, if 

you knew. 
I clasped her closer : " Friend, dear 

friend, I do ! 
I know it all — from first to last," I 

said. 
" 'T was but a blind, mistaken search 

for good ; 
Premeditated evil never led 
To this sad end." As one entranced 

she stood. 
And I went on : " Nay, but 't is not 

the end : 
God were not God if such a thing 

could be — 
If not in time, then in eternity, 
There must be room for penitence to 

mend 
Life's broken chance, else noise of wars 
Would unmake heaven." 

The shadows of the bars 
That darkened the poor face like dev- 
ils' fingers 
Faded away, and still in memory lingers 
The look of tender, tearful, glad sur- 
prise 
That brought the saint's soul to the 
sinner's eyes. 

Life out of death; it seemed to me as 
when 
The anchor, clutching, holds the 

driven ship. 
And to the cry scarce formed upon 
her lip, 
• Lord God be praised ! " I answered 
with " Amen." 



LIFE'S ROSES. 

When the morning first uncloses, 
And before the mists are gone, 

All the hills seem bright with roses, 
Just a little farther on ! 

Roses red as wings of starlings. 

And with diamond dew-drops wet ; 
" Wait," says Patience," " wait, my dar 
lings — 

Wait a little longer yet ! " 
So, with eager, upturned faces. 

Wait the children for the hours 
That shall bring them to the places 

Of the tantalizing flowers. 

Wild with wonder, sweet with guesses, 

Ve.xed with only fleeting fears ; 
So the broader day advances. 

And the twilight disappears. 
Hands begin to clutch at posies, 

Eyes to flash with new delight, 
And the roses, oh ! the roses. 

Burning, blushing full in sight ! 

Now with bosoms softly beating. 

Heart in heart, and hand in hand, 
Youths and maids together meeting 

Crowd the flowery harvest land. 
Not a thought of rainy weather. 

Nor of thorns to sting and grieve. 
Gather, gather, gather, gather. 

All the care is what to leave 1 

Noon to afternoon advances. 
Rosy red grows russet brown ; 

Sad eyes turn to backward glances, 
So the sun of youth goes down. 

And as rose by rose is withered, 
Sober sight begins to find 

Many a false heart has been gathered, 
Many a true one left behind. 

Hands are clasped with fainter holding 
Unfilled souls begin to sigh 

For the golden, glad unfolding 
Of the morn beyond the sky. 



SECRET WRITING. 

From the outward world about us, 
From the hurry and the din. 

Oh, how little do we gather 
Of the other world within ! 



POEMS OF THOUGHT AND FEELING. 



93 



For the brow may wear upon it 

All the seeming of repose 
When the brain is worn and weary, 

And the mind oppressed with woes : 
And the eye may shine and sparkle 

As it were with pleasure's glow, 
When 'tis only just the flashing 

Of the fires of pain below. 
And the tongue may have the sweetness 

That doth seem of bliss a part, 
When 't is only just the tremble 

Of the weak and wounded heart. 
Oh, the cheek may have the color 

Of the red rose, with the rest, 
WMien 'tis only just the hectic 

Of the dying leaf, at best. 

But when the hearth is kindled, 

And the house is hushed at night — 
Ah, then the secret writing 

Of the spirit comes to light ! 
Through the mother's light caressing 

Of the baby on her knee. 
We see the mystic writing 

That she does not know we see — 
By the love-light as it flashes 

In her tender-lidded eyes. 
We know if that her vision rest 

On earth, or in the skies ; 
And by the song she chooses, 

By the very tune she sings. 
We know if that her heart be set 

On seen, or unseen things. 

Oh, when the hearth is kindled — 

When the house is hushed — 't is then 
We see the hidden springs that move 

The open deeds of men. 
As the father turns the lesson 

For the boy or girl to learn, 
We perceive the inner letters 

That he knows not we discern. 
For either by the deed he does. 

Or that he leaves undone, 
We find and trace the channels 

Where his thoughts and feelings 
run. 
And often as the unconscious act. 

Or smile, or word we scan. 
Our hearts revoke the judgments 

We have passed upon the man. 

Sometimes we find that he who says ( 

The least about his faith, 
Has steadfastness and sanctity 

To suffer unto death ; 
^nd find that he who prays aloud 

With ostentatious mien, 



Prays only to be heard of men, 

And only to be seen. 
For when the hearth is kindled. 

And the house is hushed at night — 
Ah, then the secret writing 

Of the spirit comes to light. 



DREAMS. 

Often I sit and spend my hour, 

Linking my dreams from heart to 
brain, 

And as the child joins flower to flower, 
Then breaks and joins them on again, 

Casting the bright ones in disgrace. 
And weaving pale ones in their stead, 

Changing the honors and the place 
Of white and scarlet, blue and red ; 

And finding after all his pains 
Of sorting and selecting dyes. 

No single chain of all the chains 
The fond caprice that satisfies ; 

So I from all things iright and brave. 
Select what brightest, bravest seems, 

And, with the utmost skill I have. 
Contrive the fashion of my dreams. 

Sometimes ambitious thoughts abound, 
And then I draw my pattern bold. 

And have my shuttle only wound 

With silken threads or threads of gold. 

Sometimes my heart reproaches me. 
And mesh from cunning mesh I pull, 

And weave in sad humility 

With flaxen threads or threads of 
wool. 

For here the hue too brightly gleams. 
And there the grain too dark is cast. 

And so no dream of all my dreams 
Is ever finished, first, or last. 

And looking back upon my past 

Thronged with so many a wasted 
hour, 

I think that I should fear to cast 
My fortunes if I had the power. 

And think that he is mainly wise, 

Who takes what comes of good or ill, 

Trusting that wisdom underlies 

And worketh in the end — His will- 



94 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



MY POET. 



Ah, could I my poet only draw 

In lines of a living light, 
You would say that Shakespeare never 
saw 

In his dreams a fairer sight. 

Along the bright crisp grass where by 

A beautiful water lay, 
We walked — my fancies and I — 

One morn in the early May. 

And there, betwixt the water sweet 
And the gay and grassy land, 

I found the print of two little feet 
Upon the silvery sand. 

These following, and following on, 
Allured by the place and time, 

I, all of a sudden, came upon 
This poet of my rhyme. 

Betwixt my hands I longed to take 
His two cheeks brown with tan, 

To kiss him for my true love's sake, 
And call him a little man. 

A rustic of the rustics he. 

By every look and sign. 
And I knew, when he turned his face to 
me, 

'T was his spirit made him fine. 

His ignorance he had sweetly turned 

Into uses passing words : 
He had cut a pipe of corn, and learned 

Thereon to talk to the birds. 

And now it was the bluebird's trill. 
Now the blackbird on the thorn, 

Now a speckle-breast, or tawny-bill 
That answered his pipe of corn, 

And now, though he turned him north 
and south, 

And called upon bird by bird. 
There was never a little golden mouth 

Would answer him back a word. 

For all, from the red-bird bold and gay, 
To the linnet dull and plain. 

Had fallen on beds of the leafy spray, 
To listen in envious pain. 

" Ah, do as you like, my golden quill ; " 
So he said, for his vtise share ; 



" And the same to you, my tawny-bill, 
There are pleasures everywhere." 

Then his heart fell in him dancing so, 
It spun to his cheek the red, 

As he spied himself in the wave below 
A-standing on his head. 

Ah, could I but this picture draw. 
Thus glad by his nature's right, 

You would say that Shakespeare nevel 
saw 
In his dreams a fairer sight. 



WRITTEN ON THE FOURTH OF 
JULY, 1S64. 

Once more, despite the noise of wars, 

And the smoke gathering fold on fold. 
Our daisies set their stainless stars 

Against the sunshine's cloth of gold- 
Lord, make us feel, if so Thou will, 

The blessings crowning us to-day, 
And the yet greater blessing still, 

Of blessings Thou hast taken away. 

Unworthy of the favors lent, 

We fell into apostasy ; 
And lo ! our country's chastisement 

Has brought her to herself, and Thee I 

Nearer by all this grief than when 
She dared her weak ones to oppress, 

And played away her States to men 
Who scorned her for her foolishness. 

Oh, bless for us this holiday. 

Men keep like children loose from 
school, 
And put it in their hearts, we pray, 

To choose them rulers fit to rule. 

Good men, who shall their country's 
pride 

And honor to their own prefer ; 
Her sinews to their hearts so tied 

That they can only live through her. 

Men sturdy — of discerning eyes. 
And souls to apprehend the right ; 

Not with their little light so wise 
They set themselves against Thy light 

Men of small reverence for names, 
Courageous, and of fortitude 



POEMS OF THOUGHT AND FEELING. 



95 



To put aside the narrow aims 
Of factor, for the public good. 

Men loving justice for the race, 

Not for the great ones, and the few, 

Less studious of outward grace 

Than careful to be clean all through. 

Men holding state, not self, the first. 
Ready when all the deep is tossed 

With storms, and worst is come to worst. 
To save the Ship at any cost. 

Men upright, and of steady knees, 
That only to the truth will bow ; 

Lord, help us choose such men as 
these. 
For only such can save us now. 



ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 

FOULLY ASSASSINATED, APRIL, 1865. — 
INSCRIBED TO PUNCH. 

No glittering chaplet brought from other 
lands ! 
As in his life, this man, in death, is 
ours ; 
His own loved prairies o'er his " gaunt 
gnarled hands " 
Have fitly drawn their sheet of sum- 
mer flowers ! 

What need hath he now of a tardy crown. 
His name from mocking jest and sneer 
to save ? 
When every ploughman turns his fur- 
row down 
As soft as though it fell upon his 
grave. 

He was a man whose like the world 
again 
Shall never see, to vex with blame or 
praise : 
The landmarks that attest his bright, 
brief reign 
Are battles, not the pomps of gala- 
days ! 

The grandest leader of the grandest 
war 
That ever time in history gave a place ; 
What were the tinsel flattery of a star 
To such a breast ! or what a ribbon's 
grace ! 



'T is to th' man, and th' man's honest 
worth, 
The nation's loyalty in tears up- 
springs.; 
Through him the soil of labor shines 
henceforth 
High o'er the silken broideries of 
kings. 

The mechanism of external forms — 
The shrifts that courtiers put their 
bodies through, 
Were alien ways to him — his brawny 
arms 
Had other work than posturing to do ! 

Born of the people, well he knew to 
grasp 
The wants and wishes of the weak 
and small ; 
Therefore we hold him with no shadowy 
clasp — 
Therefore his name is household to 
us all. 

Therefore we love him with a love apart 
From any fawning love of pedigree — 

His was the royal soul and mind and 
heart — 
Not the poor outward shows of royalty. 

Forgive us then, O friends, if we are 
slow 
To meet your recognition of his 
worth — 
We 're jealous of the very tears that flow 
From eyes that never loved a humble 
hearth. 



SAVED. 

No tears for him ! his light was not 
yottr light ; 
From earth to heaven his spirit went 
and came. 
Seeing, where ye but saw the blank, 
black night, 
The golden breaking of the day of 
fame. 

Faded by the diviner life, and worn, 
Dust has returned to dust, and what 
ye see 
Is but the ruined house wherein were 
borne 
The birth-pangs of his immortality- 



96 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



Hither and thither drifting drearily, 

The glory of serener worlds he won, 
As some strange shifting column of the 
sea 
Catches the steadfast splendor of the 
sun. 

What was your shallow love ? or what 
the gleam 
Of smiles that chance and accident 
could chill, 
To him whose soul could make its mate 
a dream. 
And wander through the universe at 
will ? 

When your weak hearts to stormy pas- 
sion woke, 
His from its loftier bent was only 
stirred. 
As is the broad green bosom of the oak 
By the light flutter of the summer bird. 

His joys, in realms forbidden to you, he 
sought, 
And bodiless servitors, at his com- 
mands, 
Hovered about the watchfires of his 
thought 
On the dim borders of poetic lands. 

The times he lived in, like a hard, dark 
wall. 
He grandly painted with his woes and 
wrongs — 
Come nearer, friends, and see how 
brightly all 
Is joined with silvery mortises of 
songs. 

Weep for yourselves bereft, but not for 
him ; 
Wrong reaches to the compensating 
right, 
iVnd clouds that make the day of genius 
dim. 
Shine at the sunset with eternal light. 



SPENT AND MISSPENT. 

Stay yet a little longer in the sky, 

O golden color of the evening sun ! 
Let not the sweet day in its sweetness 
die, 
While my day's work is only just be- 
gun. 



Counting the happy chances strewn 
about 
Thick as the leaves, and saying which 
was best, 
The rosy lights of morning all went out, 
And it was burning noon, and time to 
rest. 

Then leaning low upon apiece of shade, 

Fringed round with violets and pan- 

sies sweet, 

My heart and I, I said, will be delayed, 

And plan our work while cools the 

sultry heat. 

Deep in the hills, and out of silence 
vast, 
A waterfall played up his silver tune ; 
My plans lost purpose, fell to dreams at 
last, ' 
And held me late into the afternoon. 

But when the idle pleasure ceased to 
please, 
And I awoke, and not a plan was 
planned, 
Just as a drowning man at what he sees 
Catches for life, I caught the thing 
at hand. 

And so life's little work-day hour has all 
Been spent and misspent doing what 
I could, 
And in regrets and efforts to recall 
The chance of having, being, what I 
would. 

And so sometimes I cannot choose but 
cry, 
Seeing my late-sown flowers are 
hardly set — 
O darkening color of the evening sky. 
Spare me the day a little longer yet ! 



LAST AND BEST. 

Sometimes, when rude, cold shadows 
run 

Across whatever light I see ; 
When all the work that I have done, 

Or can do, seems but vanity ; 

I strive, nor vainly strive, to get 

Some little heart's ease from the day 

When all the weariness and fret 
Shall vanish from my life away ; 



POEMS OF THOUGHT AND FEELING. 



97 



For I, with grandeur clothed upon, 
Shall lie in state and take my rest, 

And all my household, strangers 
grown. 
Shall hold me for an honored guest. 

But ere that day when all is set 
In order, very still and grand, 

And while my feet are lingering yet 
Along this troubled border-land, 

What things will be the first to fade, 
And down to utter darkness sink ? 
7 



The treasures that my hands have laid 
Where moth and rust corrupt, I think. 

And Love will be the last to wait 

And light my gloom with gracious 
gleams ; 

For Love lies nearer heaven's glad gate, 
Then all imagination dreams. 

Aye, when my soul its mask shall drop, 
The twain to be no more at one, 

Love, with its prayers, shall bear me up 
Beyond the lark's wings, and the sun. 



POEMS 

OF 

NATURE AND HOME. 



IF AND IF. 

If I were a painter, I could paint 

The dwarfed and straggling wood, 
And the hill-side where the meeting- 
house 
With the wooden belfry stood, 
A dozen steps from the door, — alone, 
On four square pillars of rough gray 
stone. 

We school-boys used to write our names 

With our finger-tips each day 
In th' dust o' th' cross-beams, — once 
it shone, 
I have heard the old folks say, 
(Praising the time past, as old folks 

will), 
Like a pillar o' fire on the side o' th' hill. 

I could paint the lonesome lime-kilns. 

And the lime-burners, wild and proud, 

Their red sleeves gleaming in the 

smoke 

Like a rainbow in a cloud, — 

Their huts by the brook, and their 

mimicking crew — 
Making believe to be lime-burners too ! 

I could paint the brawny wood-cutter, 

With the patches at his knees, — 
He 's been asleep these twenty years, 

Among his friends, the trees : 
The day that he died, the best oak o' 

the wood 
Came up by the roots, and he lies where 
it stood. 

I could paint the blacksmith's dingy 
shop, — 
Its sign, a pillar of smoke ; 
The farm-horse halt, the rough-haired 
colt. 
And the jade with her neck in a yoke ; 



The pony that made to himself a law, 
And would n't go under the saddle, nor 
draw ! 

The poor old mare at the door-post, 
With joints as stiff as its pegs, — 
Her one white eye, and her neck 
awry, — 
Trembling the flies from her legs, 
And the thriftless farmer that used to 

stand 
And curry her ribs with a kindly hand. 

I could paint his quaint old-fashioned 
house. 
With its windows, square and small, 
And the seams of clay running every 
way 
Between the stones o' the wall : 
The roof, with furrows of mosses green, 
And new bright shingles set between. 

The oven, bulging big behind, 
And the narrow porch before. 

And the weather-cock for ornament 
On the pole beside the door ; 

And th' row of milk-pans, shining 
bright 

As silver, in the summer light. 

And I could paint his girls and boys. 

Each and every one, 
Hepzibah sweet, with her little bare 
feet, 
And Shubal, the stalwart son. 
And wife and mother, with homespun 

gown, 
And roses beginning to shade into 
brown. 

I could paint the garden, with its paths 
Cut smooth, and running straight, — 

The gray sage bed, the poppies red. 
And the lady-grass at the gate, — 



POEMS OF NATURE AND HOME. 



99 



The black warped slab with its hive of 

bees, 
In the corner, under the apple-trees. 

I could paint the fields, in the middle 
hush 
Of winter, bleak and bare, 
Some snow like a lamb that is caught 
in a bush, 
Hanging here and there, — 
The mildewed haystacks, all a-lop, 
And the old dead stub with the crow 
at the top. 

The cow, with a board across her eyes, 

And her udder dry as dust, 
Her hide so brown, her horn turned 
down. 

And her nose the color of rust, — 
The walnut-tree so stiff and high. 
With its black bark twisted all awry. 

The hill-side, and the small space set 
With broken palings round, — 

The long loose grass, and the little 
grave 
With the head-stone on the ground. 

And the willow, like the spirit of grace 

Bending tenderly over the place. 

The miller's face, half smile, half frown, 

Were a picture I could paint. 
And the mill, with gable steep and 
brown. 
And dripping wheel aslant, — 
The weather-beaten door, set wide. 
And the heaps of meal-bags either 
side. 

The timbers cracked to gaping seams. 

The swallows' clay-built nests. 
And the rows of doves that sit on the 
beams 
With plump and glossy breasts, — 
The bear by his post sitting upright to 

eat. 
With half of his clumsy legs in his feet. 

I could paint the mill-stream, cut in 

two 
By the heat o' the summer skies. 
And the sand-bar, with its long brown 

back. 
And round and bubbly eyes, 
And the bridge, that hung so high o'er 

the tide. 
Creaking and swinging from side to 

side. 



The miller's pretty little wife, 
In the cottage that she loves, — 

Her hand so white, and her step so light, 
And her eyes as brown as th' dove's. 

Her tiny waist, and belt of blue. 

And her hair that almost dazzles you. 

I could paint the White-Hawk tavern, 
flanked 
With broken and wind-warped sheds, 
And the rock where the black clouds 
used to sit. 
And trim their watery heads 
With little sprinkles of shining light. 
Night and niorning, morning and night 

The road, where slow and wearily, 

The dusty teamster came, — 
The sign on its post and the round- 
faced host. 
And the high arched door, aflame 
With trumpet-flowers, — the well-sweep, 

high. 
And the flowing water-trough, close by. 

If I were a painter, and if my hand 

Were cunning, as it is not, 
I could paint you a picture that would 
stand 
When all the rest were forgot ; 
But why should I tell you what it would 

be.? 
I never shall paint it, nor you ever see. 



AN ORDER FOR A PICTURE. 

Oh, good painter, tell me true. 

Has your hand the cunning to draw 
Shapes of things that you never saw ? 

Aye .' Well, here is an order for you. 

Woods and corn fields, a little brown, — 
The picture must not be over- 
bright, — 
Yet all in the golden and gracious 
light 
Of a cloud, when the summer sun is 
down. 
Alway and alway, night and morn. 
Woods upon woods, with fields of 
corn 
Lying between them, not quite sere, 
And not in the full, thick, leafy bloom. 
When the wind can hardly find breath- 
ing-room 
Under their tassels, — cattle near. 



^C 



lOO 



THE' POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



Biting shorter the short green grass, 
And a hedge of sumach and sassafras, 
With bluebirds twittering all around, — 
(Ah, good painter, you can't paint 
sound ! ) — 
These, and the house where I was 
born. 
Low and little, and black and old, 
With children, many as it can hold, 
All at the windows, open wide, — 
Heads and shoulders clear outside, 
And fair young faces all ablush : 

Perhaps you may have seen, some day, 
Roses crowding the self-same way. 
Out of a wilding, wayside bush. 

Listen closer. When you have done 
With woods and corn fields and 
grazing herds, 
A lady, the loveliest ever the sun 
Looked down upon you must paint for 

me : 
Oh, if I only could make you see 

The clear blue eyes, the tender smile. 
The sovereign sweetness, the gentle 

grace. 
The woman's soul, and the angel's face 
That are beaming on me all the while, 
I need not speak these foolish 
words : 
Yet one word tells you all I would 
say, — 
She is my mother : you will agree 
That all the rest may be thrown away. 

Two little urchins at her knee 
You must paint, sir : one like me, — 
The other with a clearer brow, 
And the light of his adventurous eyes 
Flashing with boldest enterprise : 
At ten years old he went to sea, — 

God knoweth if he be living now, — 
He sailed in the good ship Commodore, 
Nobody ever crossed her track 
To bring us news, and she never came 
back. 
Ah, it is twenty long years and more 
Since that old ship went out of the bay 
With my great-hearted brother on her 

deck : 
I watched him till he shrank to a 
speck. 
And his face was toward me all the way. 
Bright his hair was, a golden brown. 
The time we stood at our mother's 
knee : 
That beauteous head, if it did go down. 
Carried sunshine into the sea ! 



Out in the fields one summer night 
We were together, half afraid 
Of the corn-leaves' rustling, and of 
the shade 
Of the high hills, stretching so still 
and far, — 
Loitering till after the low little light 
Of the candle shone through the open 
door. 
And over the hay-stack's pointed top, 
All of a tremble and ready to drop, 

The first half-hour, the great yellow 
star. 
That we, with staring, ignorant eyes, 
Had often and often watched to see 
Propped and held in its place in the 
skies 
By the fork of a tall red mulberry-tree. 
Which close in the edge of our flax- 
field grew, — 
Dead at the top, — just one branch full 
Of leaves, notched round, and lined with 
wool, 
From which it tenderly shook the dew 
Over our heads, when we came to play 
In its hand-breadth of shadow, day after 
day. 
Afraid to go home, sir ; for one of us 
bore 
A nest full of speckled and thin-shelled 

eggs, — 
The other, a bird, held fast by the legs, 
Not so big as a straw of wheat : 
The berries we gave her she would n't 

eat, 
But cried and cried, till we held her bill, 
So slim and shining, to keep her still. 

At last we stood at our mother's knee- 
Do you think, sir, if you try, 
You can paint the look of a lie } 
If you can, pray have the grace 
To put it solely in the face 
Of the urchin that is likest me : 

I think 't was solely mine, indeed : 
But that 's no matter, — paint it so ; 
The eyes of our mother — (take 
good heed) — 
Looking not on the nestful of eggs, 
Nor the fluttering bird, held so fast by 

the legs. 
But straight through our faces down to 

our lies. 
And, oh, with such injured, reproachful 
surprise ! 
I felt my heart bleed where that 

glance went, as though 
A sharp blade struck through it. 



POEMS OF NATURE AND HOME. 



lOI 



You, sir, know 
That you on the canvas are to repeat 
Things that are fairest, things most 

sweet, — 
Woods and corn fields and mulberry- 
tree, — 
The mother, — the lads, with their bird, 
at her knee : 
But, oh, that look of reproachful woe ! 
High as the heavens your name I'll 

shout, 
If you paint me the picture, and \eave 
that out. 



THE SUMMER STORM. 

At noon-time I stood in the door-way 
to see 

The spots, burnt like blisters, as white 
as could be. 

Along the near meadow, shoved in like 
a wedge 

Betwixt the high-road, and the stubble- 
land's edge. 

The leaves of the elm-tree were dusty 

and brown, 
The birds sat with shut eyes and wings 

hanging down, 
The corn reached its blades out, as if in 

the pain 
Of crisping and scorching it felt for the 

rain. 

Their meek faces turning away from the 

sun, 
The cows waded up to their flanks in the 

run. 
The sheep, so herd-loving, divided their 

flocks, 
And singly lay down by the sides of the 

rocks. 

At sunset there rose and stood black in 

the east 
A doud with the forehead and horns of 

a beast, 
That quick to the zenith went higher 

and higher, 
With feet that were thunder and eyes 

that were fire. 

Then came a hot sough, like a gust of 

his breath, 
And the leaves took the tremble and 

whiteness of death, — 



The dog, to his master, from kennel and 

kin. 
Came whining and shaking, with back 

crouching in. 

At twilight the darkness was fearful to 

see : 
" Make room," cried the children, " O 

mother, for me ! " 
As climbing her chair and her lap, with 

alarm, 
And whisper, — " Was ever there seen 

such a storm ! " 

At morning, the run where the cows 

cooled their flanks 
Had washed up a hedge of white roots 

from its banks ; 
The turnpike was left a blue streak, and 

each side 
The gutters like rivers ran muddy and 

wide. 

The barefooted lad started merry to 

school. 
And the way was the nearest that led 

through the pool ; 
The red-bird wore never so shining a 

coat, 
Nor the pigeon so glossy a ring on her 

throat. 

The teamster sat straight in his place, 

for the nonce. 
And sang to his sweetheart and team, 

both at once ; 
And neighbors shook hands o'er the 

fences that day, 
And talked of their homesteads instead 

of their hay. 



THE SPECIAL DARLING. 

Along the grassy lane one day. 

Outside the dull old-fashioned town, 

A dozen children were at play ; 
From noontide till the even-fall, 

Curly-heads flaxen and curly-heads 
brown 

Were busily bobbing up and down 
Behind the blackberry wall. 

And near these merry-makers wild 
A piteous little creature was. 

With face unlike the face of a child, —- 
Eyes fixed, and seeming frozen still, 



I02 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



And legs all doubled up in th' grass, 
Disjointed from his will. 

No dream deceived his dreary hours, 
Nor made him merry nor made him 
grave ; 

He did not hear the children call. 

Tumbling under the blackberry-wall, 
With shoulders white with flowers ; 

But sat with great wide eyes one way, 

And body limberly a-sway. 
Like a water-plant in a wave. 

He did not hear the little stir 

The ants made, working in their hills, 

Nor see the pale, gray daffodils 
Lifting about him their dull points. 

Nor yet the curious grasshopper 
Transport his green and angular joints 

From bush to bush. Poor simple 
boy, — 
His senses cheated of their birth. 
He might as well have grown in th' 
earth, 

For all he knew of joy. 

Near where the children took their fill 

Of play, outside the dull old town, 
And neighbored by a wide-flanked 
hill. 

Where mists like phantoms up and 
down 
Moved all the time, a homestead was. 

With window toward the plot of grass 
Where sat this child, and oft and again 

Tender eyes peered through the pane. 
Whose glances still were dim. 

Till leaping under the blackberry-wall. 
Curly-heads flaxen, brown and all. 

They rested at last on him. 

Ah, who shall say but that such love 
Is the type of His who made us all. 

And that from the Kingdom up above 
The eyes that note the sparrow's 

fall, 
O'er the incapable, weak and small, 

Watch with tenderest care : 

Such is my hope and prayer. 



A DREAM OF HOME. 

Sunset ! a hush is on the air. 

Their gray old heads the mountains 

bare, 
As if the winds were saying prayer. 



The woodland, with its broad, green 

wing, 
Shuts close the insect whispering. 
And lo ! the sea gets up to sing. 

The day's last splendor fades and dies, 
And shadows one by one arise, 
To light the candles of the skies. 

O wild flowers, wet with tearful dew, 

woods, with starlight shining through 5 
My heart is back to-night with you ! 

1 know each beech and maple tree. 
Each climbing brier and shrub I see, — 
Like friends they stand to welcome 

me. 

Musing, I go along the streams, 
Sweetly believing in my dreams ; 
For Fancy like a prophet seems. 

Footsteps beside me tread the sod 
As in the twilights gone they trod ; 
And 1 unlearn my doubts, thank God ! 

Unlearn my doubts, forget my fears, 
And that bad carelessness that sears, 
And makes me older than my years. 

I hear a dear, familiar tone, 
A loving hand is in my own. 
And earth seems made for me alone. 

If I my fortunes could have planned, 
I would not have let go that hand ; 
But they must fall who learn to stand. 

And how to blend life's varied hues, 
What ill to find, what good to lose, 
My Father knoweth best to choose. 



EVENING PASTIMES. 

Sitting by my fire alone. 
When the winds are rough and cold. 
And I feel myself grow old 

Thinking of the summers flown, 

I have many a harmless art 
To beguile the tedious time : 
Sometimes reading some old rhyme 

I already know by heart ; 

Sometimes singing over words 
Which in youth's dear day gone by 



POEMS OF NA TURK AND HOME. 



103 



Sounded sweet, so sweet that I 
Had no praises for the birds. 

Then, from off its secret shelf 
I from dust and moth remove 
The old garment of my love, 

In the which I wrap myself. 

And a little while am vain ; 
But its rose hue will not bear 
The sad light of faded hair; 

So I hold it up again, 

More in patience than regret 
Not a leaf the forest through 
But is sung and whispered to. 

I shall wear that garment yet. 



FADED LEAVES. 

The hills are bright with maples yet ; 

But down the level land 
The beech leaves rustle in the wind 

As dry and brown as sand. 

The clouds in bars of rusty red 

Along the hill-tops glow. 
And in the still, sharp air, the frost 

Is like a dream of snow. 

The berries of the brier-rose 
Have lost their rounded pride : 

The bitter-sweet chrysanthemums 
Are drooping heavy-eyed. 

The cricket grows more friendly now, 
The dormouse sly and wise. 

Hiding away in the disgrace 
Of nature, from men's eyes. 

The pigeons in black wavering lines 
Are swinging toward the sun ; 

And all the wide and withered fields 
Proclaim the summer done. 

His store of nuts and acorns now 
The squirrel hastes to gain, 

And sets his house in order for 
The winter's dreary reign. 

'T is time to light the evening fire, 
To read good books, to sing 

The low and lovely songs that breathe 
Of the eternal spring. 



THE LIGHT OF DAYS GONE 
BY. 

Some comfort when all else is night. 

About his fortune plays, 
Who sets his dark to-days in the light 

Of the sunnier yesterdays. 

In memory of joy that 's been 

Something of joy is, still ; 
Where no dew is, we may dabble in 

A dream of the dew at will. 

All with the dusty city's throng 
Walled round, I mused to-day 

Of flowery sheets lying white along 
The pleasant grass of the way. 

Under the hedge by the brawling brook 
I heard the woodpecker's tap. 

And the drunken trills of the blackbirds 
shook 
The sassafras leaves in my lap. 

I thought of the rainy morning air 
Dropping down through the pine, 

Of furrows fresh from the shining share, 
And smelling sweeter than wine. 

Of the soft, thick moss, and how it grew 
With silver beads impearled. 

In the well that we used to think ran 
through 
To the other side of the world. 

I thought of the old barn set about 
With its stacks of sweet, dry hay ; 

Of the swallows flying in and out 

Through the gables, steep and gray ; 

Thought of the golden hum of the 
bees. 

Of the cocks with their heads so high, 
Making it morn in the tops of the trees 

Before it was morn in the sky. 

And of the home, of the dear old home, 
With its brown and rose-bound wall. 

Where we fancied death could never 
come — 
I thought of it more than of all. 



Each 



play-ground memory 



childish 
c\aims. 
Telling me here, and thus. 
We called to the echoes by their names, 
Till we made them answer us. 



104 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



Thank God, when other power decays, 

And other pleasures die. 
We still may set our dark to-days 

In the light of days gone by. 



A SEA SONG. 

Come, make for me a little song — 
'T was so a spirit said to me — 

And make it just four verses long, 
And make it sweet as it can be, 
And make it all about the sea. 

Sing me about the wild waste shore. 

Where, long and long ago, with me 
You watched the silver sails that bore 
The great, strong ships across the 

sea — 
The blue, the bright, the boundless 
sea. 

Sing me about the plans we planned : 
How one of those good ships should be 

My way to find some flowery land 
Away beyond the misty sea. 
Where, alway, you should live with 
me. 

Sing, lastly, how our hearts were caught 
Up into heaven, because that we 

Knew not the flowery land we sought 
Lay all beyond that other sea — 
That soundless, sailless, solemn sea. 



SERMONS IN STONES. 

Flower of the deep red zone. 
Rain the fine light about thee, near and 

far. 
Hold the wide earth, so as the evening 
star 
Holdeth all heaven, alone. 
And with thy wondrous glory make 

men see 
His greater glory who did fashion thee ! 

Sing, little goldfinch, sing ! 
Make the rough billows lift their curly 

ears 
And listen, fill the violet's eyes with tears. 

Make the green leaves to swing 
As in a dance, when thou dost hie along. 
Showing the sweetness whence thou 
get'st thy song. 



O daisies of the hills. 

When winds do pipe to charm ye, be 
not slow. 

Crowd up, crowd up, and make your 
shoulders show 
White o'er the daffodils ! 

Yea, shadow forth through your excel- 
ling grace 

With whom ye have held counsel face 
to face. 

Fill full our desire. 
Gray grasses ; trick your lowly stems: 

with green. 
And wear your splendors even as a 
queen 
Weareth her soft attire. 
Unfold the cunning mystery of design 
That combs out all your skirts to rib- 
bons fine. 

And O my heart, my heart, 
Be careful to go strewing in and out 
Thy way with good deeds, lest it come 
about 
That when thou shalt depart, 
No low lamenting tongue be found to 

say. 
The world is poorer since thou went'st 
away ! 

Thou shouldst not idly beat, 
While beauty draweth good men's 

thoughts to prayer 
Even as the bird's wing draweth out 

the air, 
But make so fair and sweet 
Thy house of clay, some dusk shall 

spread about. 
When death unlocks the door and lets 

thee out. 



MY PICTURE. 

Ah, how the eye on the picture stops 
Where the lights of memory shine I 
My friend, to thee I will leave the sea. 

If only this be mine. 
For the thought of the breeze in the 
tops of the trees 
Stirs my blood like wine ! 

I will leave the sea and leave the 
ships, 
And the light-house, taper and talV 




Morn on the mninitnins." Pase lo; 



POEMS OF NATURE AND HOME. 



105 



The bar so low, whence the fishers go, 
And the fishers' wives and all, 

If thou wilt agree to leave to me 
This picture for my wall. 

I leave thee all the palaces. 

With their turrets in the sky — 
The hunting-grounds, the hawks and 
hounds — 
They please nor ear nor eye ; 
But the sturdy strokes on the sides o' 
the oaks 
Make my pulses fly. 

The old cathedral, filling all 

The street with its shadow brown, 
The organ grand, and the choiring 
band, 
And the priest with his shaven 
crown ; 
'T is the wail of the hymn in the wild- 
wood dim, 
That bends and bows me down. 

The shepherd piping to his flock 
In the merry month of the May, 
The lady fair with the golden hair. 

And the knight so gallant and 
gay — 
For the wood so drear that is pictured 
here, 
I give them all away. 

I give the cities and give the sea, 
The ships and the bar so low, 
And fishers and wives whose dreary 
lives 
Speak from the canvas so ; 
And for all of these I must have the 
trees — 
The trees on the hills of snow ! 

And shall we be agreed, my friend ? 
Shall it stand as I have said ? 
For the sake of the shade wherein I 
played, 
And for the sake of my dead. 
That lie so low on the hills of snow, 
Shall it be as I have said .'' 



MORNING IN THE MOUNTAINS. 

Morn on the mountains ! streaks of 
roseate light 
Up the high east athwart the shadows 
run; 



The last low star fades softly out of 
sight. 
And the gray mists go forth to meet 
the sun. 

And now from every sheltering shrub 
and vine, 
And thicket wild with many a tangled 
spray. 
And from the birch and elm and rough- 
browed pine, 
The birds begin to serenade the day. 

And now the cock his sleepy harem 
thrills 
With clarion calls, and down the 
floweiy dells. 
And from their mossy hollows in the 
hills. 
The sheep have started all their tink' 
ling bells. 

Lo, the great sun ! and Nature every- 
where 
Is all alive, and sweet as she can be ; 
A thousand happy sounds are in the 
air, 
A thousand by the rivers and the sea. 

The dipping oar, the boatman's cheer- 
ful horn. 
The well-sweep, creaking in its rise 
and fall ; 
And pleasantly along the springing corn, 
The music of the ploughshare, best of 
all,— 

The insect's little hum, the whir and 
beat 
Of myriad wings, the mower's song 
so blithe, 
The patter of the school-boy's naked 
feet. 
The joyous ringing of the whetted 
scythe, — 

The low of kine, the falling meadow bar, 
The teamster's whistle gay, the dron- 
ing round 
Of the wet mill-wheel, and the tuneful 
jar 
Of hollow milk-pans, swell the gen- 
eral sound. 

And by the sea, and in each vale and 
glen 
Are happy sights, as well as sounds 
to hear, 



io6 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



The world of things, and the great 
world of men, 
All, all is busy, busy far and near. 

The ant is hard at work, and everywhere 
The bee is balanced on her wings so 
brown ; 
And the black spider on her slender 
stair 
Is running down and up, and up and 
down. 

The pine-wood smoke in bright, fantas- 
tic curls, 
Above the low - roofed homestead 
sweeps away, 
And o'er the groups of merry boys and 
girls 
That pick the berries bright, or rake 
the hay. 

Morn on the mountains ! the enkindling 
skies, 
The flowery fields, the meadows, and 
the sea, 
All are so fair, the heart within me 
cries, 
How good, how wondrous good our 
God must be. 



TPIE THISTLE FLOWER. 

My homely flower that blooms along 

The dry and dusty ways, 
I have a mind to make a song, 

And make it in thy praise ; 
For thou art favored of my heart, 
Humble and outcast as thou art. 

Though never with the plants of grace 

In garden borders set, 
Full often have I seen thy face 

With tender tear-drops wet, 
And seen thy gray and ragged sleeves 
All wringing with them, morns and 
eves. 

Albeit thou livest in a bush 

Of such unsightly form. 
Thou hast not any need to blush — 

Thou hast thine own sweet charm ; 
And for that charm I love thee so. 
And not for any outward show. 

The iron-weed, so straight and fine, 
Above thy head may rise, 



And all in glossy purple shine ; 

But to my partial eyes 
It cannot harm thee — thou hast still 
A place no finer flower can fill. 

The fennel, she is courted at 
The porch-side and the door — 

Thou hast no lovers, and for that 
I love thee all the more ; 

Only the wind and rain to be 

Thy friends, and keep thee company. 

So, being left to take thine ease 

Behind thy thorny wall. 
Thy little head with vanities 

Has not been turned at all, 
And all field beauties give me grace 
To praise thee to thy very face. 

So, thou shalt evermore belong 
To me from this sweet hour, 

And I will take thee for my song, 
And take thee for my flower, 

And by the great, and proud, and 
high 

Unenvied, we will live and die. 



MY DARLINGS. 

My Rose, so red and round. 
My Daisy, darling of the summer 

weather, 
You must go down now, and keep 
house together, 
Low underground ! 

O little silver line 
Of meadow water, ere the cloud rise 

darkling, 
Slip out of sight, and with your comely 
sparkling 
Make their hearth shine. 

Leaves of the garden bowers, 
The frost is coming soon, — your prime 

is over ; 
So gently fall, and make a soft, warnj 
cover 
To house my flowers. 

Lithe willow, too, forego 
The crown that makes you queen of 

woodland graces. 
Nor leave the winds to shear the lady 
tresses 
From your drooped brow. 



POEMS OF NATURE AND HOME. 



107 



Oak, held by strength apart 
From all the trees, stop now your stems 

from grov«ing, 
And send the s£kp, while yet 't is bravely 
flowing, 
Back to your heart. 

And ere the autumn sleet 
Freeze into ice, or sift to bitter snow- 
ing, 
Make compact with your peers for over- 
strowing 
My darlings sweet. 

So when their sleepy eyes 
Shall be unlocked by May with rainy 

kisses, 
They to the sweet renewal of old blisses 

Refreshed may rise. 

Lord, in that evil day 
When my own wicked thoughts like 

thieves waylay me. 
Or when pricked conscience rises up to 
slay me. 
Shield me, I pray. 

Aye, when the storm shall drive, 
Spread thy two blessed hands like 

leaves above me. 
And with thy great love, though none 
else should love me, 
Save me alive ! 

Heal with thy peace my strife ; 
And as the poet with his golden versing 
Lights his low house, give me, thy praise 
rehearsing, 

To light my life. 

Shed down thy grace in showers. 
And if some roots of good, at thy ap- 
pearing. 
Be found in me, transplant them for the 
rearing 
Of heavenly flowers. 



THE FIELD SWEET-BRIER. 

I LOVE the flowers that come about 
with spring, 
And whether they be scarlet, white, 
or blue, 
It mattereth to me not anything ; 

For when I see them full of sun and 
dew, 



My heart doth get so full with its de- 
light, 

I know not blue from red, nor red from 
white. 

Sometimes I choose the lily, without 

stain ; 
The royal rose sometimes the best I 

call ; 
Then the low daisy, dancing with the 

rain. 
Doth seem to me the finest flower of 

all; 
And yet if only one could bloom for me — 
I known right well what flower that one 

would be ! 

Yea, so I think my native wilding brier. 
With just her thin four leaves, and 
stem so rough. 
Could, with her sweetness, give me my 
desire. 
Aye, all my life long give me sweets 
enough ; 
For though she be not vaunted to excel. 
She in all modest grace aboundeth well. 

And I would have no whit the less con- 
tent. 
Because she hath not won the poet's 
voice. 

To pluck her little stars for ornament, 
And that no man were poorer for my 
choice, 

Since she perforce must shine above the 
rest 

In comely looks, because I love her best ! 

When fancy taketh wing, and wills to 

go 
Where all selected glories blush and 

bloom, 
I search and find the flower that used to 

grow 
Close by the door-stone of the dear 

old home — 
The flower whose knitted roots we did 

divide 
For sad transplanting, when the mother 

died. 

All of the early and the latter May, 
And through the windless heats of 
middle June, 
Our green-armed brier held for us day 
by day, 
The morning coolness till the after- 
noon ; 



io8 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



And every bird that took his grateful 

share, 
Sang with a heavenlier tongue than 

otherwhere. 

And when from out the west the low 

sun shone, 
It used to make our pulses leap and 

thrill 
To see her lift her shadows from the 

stone, 
And push it in among us o'er the 

sill — 
O'erstrow with flowers, and then push 

softly in, 
As if she were our very kith and kin. 

So, seeing still at evening's golden 
close 
This shadow with our childish shad- 
ows blend. 

We came to love our simple four-leaved 
rose, 
As if she were a sister or a friend. 

And if my eyes all flowers but one must 
lose. 

Our wild sweet-brier would be the one 
to choose. 



THE LITTLE HOUSE ON THE 
HILL. 

Memory, be sweet to me — 
Take, take all else at will, 

So thou but leave me safe and sound. 
Without a token my heart to wound. 
The little house on the hill ! 

Take all of best from east to west, 

So thou but leave me still 
The chamber, where in the starry light 

1 used to lie awake at night 
And list to the whip-poor-will. 

Take violet-bed, and rose-tree red. 
And the purple flags by the mill. 

The meadow gay, and the garden- 
ground, 

But leave, oh leave me safe and sound 
The little house on the hill ! 

The daisy-lane, and the dove's low plain 

And the cuckoo's tender bill, 
Take one and all, but leave the dreams 
That turned the rafters to golden beams. 
In the little house on the hill ! 



The gables brown, they have tumbled 
down, 
And dry is the brook by the mill ; 
The sheets I used with care to keep 
Have wrapt my dead for the last long 
sleep, 
In the valley, low and still. 

But, Memory, be sweet to me. 
And build the walls, at will. 
Of the chamber where I used to mark, 
So softly rippling over the dark. 
The song of the whip-poor-will ! 

Ah, Memory, be sweet to me ! 

All other fountains chill ; 
But leave that song so weird and wild, 
Dear as its life to the heart of the 
child. 

In the little house on the hill ! 



THE OLD HOUSE. 

My little birds, with backs as brown 
As sand, and throats as white as 
frost, 
I 've searched the summer up and 
down. 
And think the other birds have lost 
The tunes you sang, so sweet, so low, 
About the old house, long ago. 

My little flowers, that with your bloom 

So hid the grass you grew upon, 
A child's foot scarce had any room 
Between you, — are you dead and 
gone ? 
I 've searched through fields and gar- 
dens rare, 
Nor found your likeness anywhere. 

My little hearts, that beat so high 
With love to God, and trust in men, 

Oh, come to me, and say if I 

But dream, or was I dreaming then, 

What time we sat within the glow 

Of the old house hearth, long ago .' 

My little hearts, so fond, so true, 

I searched the world all far and wide, 
And never found the like of you : 

God grant we meet the other side 
The darkness 'twixt us now that 

stands, 
In that new house not made Vvith 
hands ! 



POEMS OF NATURE AND HOME. 



109 



THE BLACKBIRD. 

" I could not think so plain a bird 
Could sing so fine a song.'' 

One on another against the wall 

Pile up the books, — I am done with 

them all ! 
I shall be wise, if I ever am wise. 
Out of my own ears, and of my own eyes. 

One day of the woods and their balmy 

light,- 
One hour on the top of a breezy hill, 
There in the sassafras all out of sight 
The blackbird is splitting his slender 

bill 
For the ease of his heart ! 

Do you think if he said 
I will sing like this bird with the mud- 
colored back 
And the two little spots of gold over his 

eyes, 
Or like to this shy little creature that 

flies 
So low to the ground, with the amethyst 

rings 
About her small throat, — all alive when 

she sings 
With a glitter of shivering green, — for 

the rest. 
Gray shading to gray, with the sheen of 

her breast 
Half rose and half fawn, — 

Or like this one so proud. 
That flutters so restless, and cries out so 

loud. 
With stiff horny beak and a topknotted 

head, 
A.nd a lining of scarlet laid under his 

wings, — 
Do you think, if he said, " I 'm ashamed 

to be black ! " 
That he could have shaken the sassa- 
fras-tree 
As he does with the song he was born 

to .'' not he ! 



CRADLE SONG. 

All by the sides of the wide wild river 
Surging sad through the sodden land, 

There be the black reeds washing to- 
gether — 
Washing together in rain and sand ; 



Going, blowing, flowing, together — 
Rough are the winds, and the tide 
runs high — 

Hush little babe in thy silken cradle ^ 
Lull lull, lull lull, lull lullaby ! 

Father is riding home, little baby. 
Riding home through the wind and 
rain ; 
Flinty hoofs on the flag stems beating 

Thrum like a flail on the golden grain. 
All in the wild, wet reeds of the low- 
lands. 
Dashed and plashed with the freezing 

foam. 
There be the blood-red wings of the 
starlings 
Shining to light and lead him home. 

Spurring hard o'er the grass-gray 
ridges — 
Slacking rein in the low, wet land. 
Where be the black reeds washing to- 
gether — 
Washing together in rain and sand. 
Down of the yellow-throated creeper — 
Plumes of the woodcock, green and 
black — 
Boughs of salix, and combs of honey — 
These be the gifts he is bearing back. 

Yester morning four sweet ground-doves 

Sung so gay to their nest in the wall — 
Oh, by the moaning, and oh, by the 
droning. 

The wild, wild water is over them all ! 
Come, O morning, come with thy roses. 

Flame like a burning bush in the sky — 
Hush, little babe, in thy silken cradle — 

Lull lull, lull lull, lull lullaby ! 



GOING TO COURT. 

The farm-lad quarried from the mow 
The golden bundles, hastily. 

And, giving oxen, colt, and cow 

Their separate portions, he was free. 

Then, emptying all the sweet delight 
Of his young heart into his eyes, 

As if he might not go that night, 
He lingered, looking at the skies. 

The evening's silver plough had gone 
Through twilight's bank of yellow 
haze, 



no 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



And turned two little stars thereon — 
Still artfully he stayed to praise 

The hedge-row's bloom — the trickling 
run — 

The crooked lane, and valley low — 
Each pleasant walk, indeed, save one, 

And that the way he meant to go ! 

In truth, for Nature's simple shows 
He had no thoughts that night, to 
spare. 

In vain to please his eyes, the rose 
Climbed redly out upon the air. 

The bean-flower, in her white attire 
Displayed in vain her modest charms, 

And apple-blossoms, all on fire, 
Fell uninvited in his arms. 

When Annie raked the summer hay 
Last year, a little thorn he drew 

Out of her white hand, such a way. 
It pierced his heart all through and 
through. 

Poor farmer-lad ! could he that night 
Have seen how fortune's leaves were 
writ. 

His eyes had emptied all their light 
Back to his heart, and broken it. 



ON THE SEA. 

I WILL call her when she comes to me 

My lily, and not my wife, 
So whitely and so tenderly 

iihe was set in my story life. 

In vain her gentle eyes to please 
The year had done her best, 

Setting her tides of crocuses 
All softly toward the west : 

The bright west, where our love was 
born 
And grew to perfect bloom, 
And where the broad leaves of the^ 
corn 
Hang low about her tomb. 

I hid from men my cruel wound 
And sailed away on the sea, 

But like waves around some hulk 
aground 
Her love enfoldeth me. 



My clumsy hands are cracked and 
brown ; 

My chin is rough as a bur. 
But under the dry husk soft as down 

Lieth my love for her. 

One night when storms were in the 
sky — 

Sailing away on the sea, 
I dreamed that I was doomed to die, 

And that she came to me. 

They bound my eyes, but I had sight 
And saw her take that hour 

My head so bright in her apron white 
As if it had been a flower ! 

No child when I sit alone at night 
Comes climbing on my knee. 

But I dream of love and my heart is 
light 
As I sail away on the sea. 



A FRAGMENT. 

It was a sandy level wherein stood 
The old and lonesome house ; far as 
the eye 
Could measure, on the green back of 
the wood. 
The smoke lay always, low and lazily. 

Down the high gable windows, all one 
way. 
Hung the long, drowsy curtains, and 
across 
The sunken shingles, where the rain 
would stay. 
The roof was ridged, a hand's- 
breadth deep, with moss. 

The place was all so still you would 
have said 
The picture of the Summer, drawn, 
should be 
With golden ears, laid back against 
her head. 
And listening to the far, low-lying sea. 

But from the rock, rough-grained and 
icy-crowned. 
Some little flower from out some 
cleft will rise ; 
And in this quiet land my love I found, 
With all their soft light, sleepy, in 
her eyes. 



POEMS OF NATURE AND HOME. 



Ill 



No bush to lure a bird to sing to her — i Streaming in the north wind's breath, 
In depths of calm the gnats' faint That my little rose-mouthed blossom 



hum was drowned, 
And the wind's voice was like a little stir 
Of the uneasy silence, not like sound. 

No tender trembles of the dew at close 
Of dav, — at morn, no insect choir ; 
No sweet bees at sweet work about the 
rose, 
Like little housewife fairies round 
their fire. 

And yet the place, suffused with her, 
seemed fair — 
Ah, I would be immortal, could I 
write 
How from her forehead fell the shining 
hair. 
As morning falls from heaven — so 
bright ! so bright. 



SHADOWS. 

When I see the long wild briers 
Waving in the winds like fires, 

See the green skirts of the maples 
Barred with scarlet and with gold. 
See the sunflower, heavy-hearted, 
Shadows then from days departed 

Come and with their tender trembles 
Wrap my bosom, fold on fold. 

I can hear sweet invitations 
Through the sobbing, sad vibrations 

Of the winds that follow, follow. 
As from self I seek to fly — 
Come up hither ! come up hither ! 
Leave the rough and rainy weather ! 

Come up where the royal roses 
Never fade and never die ! 

'T was when May was blushing, bloom- 
ing, 
Brown bee, bluebirds, singing, humming, 

That we built and walled our chamber 
With the emerald of leaves ; 
Made our bed of yellow mosses, 
Soft as pile of silken flosses. 

Dreamed our dreams in dewy bright- 
ness 
Radiant like the morns and eves. 

And it was when woods were gleaming. 

And when clouds were wildly streaming 

Gray and umber, white and ember. 



Fell and faded on my bosom. 

Cankered by the coming coldness, 
Blighted by the frosts of death. 

Therefore, when I see the shadows, 
Drifting in across the meadows, 

See the troops of summer wild birds 
Flying from us, cloud on cloud. 
Memory with that May-time lingers, 
And I seem to feel the fingers 

Of my lost and lovely darling 
Wrap my heart up in her shroud 



APRIL. 



The wild and windy March once more 

Has shut his gates of sleet. 
And given us back the April-time, 

So fickle and so sweet. 

Now blighting with our fears, our 
hopes — 
Now kindling hopes with fears — 
Now softly weeping through her 
smiles — 
Now smiling through her tears. 

Ah, month that comes with rainbows 
crowned, 

And golden shadows dressed — 
Constant to her inconstancy, 

And faithful to unrest. 

The swallows 'round the homestead 
eaves — 

The bluebirds in the bowers 
Twitter their sweet songs for thy sake, 

Gay mother of the flowers. 

The brooks that moaned but yesterday 
Through bunches of dead grass. 

Climb up their banks with dimpled 
hands. 
And watch to see thee pass. 

The willow, for thy grace's sake. 
Has dressed with tender spray, 

And all the rivers send their mists 
To meet thee on the way. 

The morning sets her rosy clouds 

Like hedges in the sky. 
And o'er and o'er their dear old tunes 

The winds of evening try. 



112 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



Before another week has gone, 
Each bush, and shrub, and tree, 

Will be as full of buds and leaves 
As ever it can be. 

I welcome thee with all my heart, 

Glad herald of the spring. 
And yet I cannot choose but think 

Of all thou dost not bring. 

The violet opes her eyes beneath 
The dew-fall and the rain — 

But oh, the tender, drooping lids 
That open not again ! 

Thou set'st the red familiar rose 

Beside the household door, 
But oh, the friends, the sweet, sweet 
friends 

Thou bringest back no more ! 

But shall I mourn that thou no more 

A short-lived joy can bring. 
Since death has lifted up the gates 

Of their eternal spring .' 



POPPIES. 

O LADIES, softly fair, 

Who curl and comb your hair, 

And deck your dainty bodies, eve and 
morn, 
With pearls, and flowery spray, 
And knots of ribbons gay, 

As if ye were for idlesse only born : 
Hearken to Wisdom's call — 
What are ye, after all, 

But foolish poppies in among the corn ! 

Whose lives but parts repeat — 
Whose little dancing feet 
Swim lightly as the silverly mists of 
morn : 
Whose pretty palms unclose 
Like some fresh dewy rose, 
For dainty dalliance, not for distaffs 
born; 
Hearken to Wisdom's call — 
What are ye, after all, 
But flaunting poppies in among the 
corn ! 

O women, sad of face, 
Whose crowns of girlish grace 
Sin has plucked off, and left ye all for- 
lorn — 



Whose pleasures do not please — 
Whose hearts have no hearts'- 
ease — 
Whose seeming honor is of honor 
shorn : 
Hearken to Wisdom's call — 
What are ye, one and all, 
But painted poppies in among the corn ! 

Women, to name whose name 
All good men blush for shame, 

And bad men even, with the speech of 
scorn ; 
Who have nor sacred sight 
For Vesta's lamps so white, 

Nor hearing for old Triton's wreathed 
horn : 
Oh, hark to Wisdom's call — 
What are ye, one and all, 

But poison poppies in among the corn ! 

Women, who will not cease 
From toil, nor be at peace 
Either at purple eve or yellowing morn, 
But drive with pitiless hand. 
Your ploughshares through the 
land 
Quick with the lives of daisies yet un- 
born : 
Hearken to Wisdom's call — 
What are ye, after all. 
But troublous poppies in among the 
corn ! 

Blighting with fretful looks 
The tender-tasseled stocks — 

Sweeping your wide-floored barns with 
sighs forlorn 
About the unfilled grains 
And starving hunger-pains 

That on the morrow, haply, shall be 
borne : 
Oh, hark to Wisdom's call — 
What are ye, after all, 

But forward poppies in among the corn ! 

O virgins, whose pure eyes 

Hold commerce with the skies — 
Whose lives lament that ever ye were 
born ; 

The cross whose joy to wear 
Never the rose, but only just the thorn: 

Hearken to Wisdom's call — 

What are ye, after all. 
Better than poppies in among the corni 

What better ? who abuse 
The gifts wise women use. 



POEMS OF NATURE AND HOME. 



113 



With locks sheared off, and bosoms 
scourged and torn ; 
Lapping your veils so white 
Betwixt ye and the light, 
Composed in heaven's sweet cisterns, 
morn by morn : 
Oh, hark to Wisdom's call — 
What are ye, after all 
Better than poppies in among the corn ! 

O women, rare and fine. 
Whose mouths are red with wine 
Of kisses of your children, night and 
morn. 
Whose ways are virtue's ways — 
Whose good works are your 
praise — 
Whose hearts hold nothing God has 
made in scorn : 
Though Fame may never call 
Your names, ye are, for all. 
The Ruths that stand breast-high amid 
the corn ! 

Your steadfast love and sure 
Makes all beside it poor ; 
Your cares like royal ornaments are 
worn ; 
Wise women ! what so sweet. 
So queenly, so complete 
To name ye by, since ever one was 
born ? 
Since she, whom poets call, 
The sweetest of you all, 
First gleaned with Boaz in among the 
corn. 



A SEA SONG. 

Nor far nor near grew shrub nor tree. 
The bare hills stood up bleak behind, 
And in between the marsh weeds gray 
Some tawny-colored sand-drift lay. 
Opening a pathway to the sea, 
The which I took to please my mind. 

In full sight of the open seas 
A patch of flowers I chance to find, 
As if the May, being thereabout. 
Had from her apron spilled them out ; 
And there I lay and took my ease, 
And made a song to please my mind. 

Sweet bed ! if you should live full long, 
^ sweeter you will never find — 



Some flowers were red, and some were 

white ; 
And in their low and tender light 
I meditated on my song. 
Fitting the words to please my mind. 

Some sea-waves on the sands up- 
thrown. 
And left there by the wanton wind, 
With lips all curled in homesick pain 
For the old mother's arms again. 
Moved me, and to their piteous moan 
I set the tune to please my mind. 

But now I would in very truth 
The flowers I had not chanced to find, 
Nor lain their speckled leaves along, 
Nor set to that sad tune my song ; 
For that which pleased my careless 

youth 
It faileth now to please my mind. 

And this thing I do know for true, 
A truer you will never find. 
No false step e'er so lightly rung 
But that some echo giving tongue 
Did like a hound all steps pursue, 
Until the world was left behind. 



WINTER AND SUMMER. 

The winter goes and the summer comes, 
And the cloud descends in warm, wet 
showers ; 
The grass grows green where the frost 
has been, 
And waste and wayside are fringed 
with flowers. 

The winter goes and the summer comes, 
And the merry bluebirds twitter and 
trill, 
And the swallow swings on his steel- 
blue wings. 
This way and that way, at wildest 
will. 

The winter goes and the summer comes, 
And the swallow he swingeth no 
more aloft. 
And the bluebird's breast swells out of 
her nest. 
And the horniest bill of them all 
grows soft. 



114 



The summer goes and the winter comes, 
And the daisy dies and the daffodil 
dies, 
And the softest bill grows horny and 
still, 
And the days set dimly and dimly 
rise. 

The summer goes and the winter comes 
And the red fire fades from the heart 
o' th' rose, 
And the snow lies white where the grass 
was bright, 
And the wild wind bitterly blows and 
blows. 

The winter comes and the winter stays, 
Aye, cold and long and long and 
cold. 
And the pulses beat to the weary feet, 
And the head feels sick and the heart 
grows cold. 

The winter comes and the winter stays, 
And all the glory behind us lies. 

The cheery light drops into the night, 
And the snow drifts over our sight- 
less eyes. 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 

taken off her tire of 



AUTUMN. 

Shorter and shorter now the twilight 
clips 
The days, as through the sunset 
gates they crowd, 
And Summer from her golden collar 
slips 
And strays through stubble-fields, 
and moans aloud, 

Save when by fits the warmer air de- 
ceives. 
And, stealing hopeful to some shel- 
tered bower, 
She lies on pillows of the yellow leaves, 
And tries the old tunes over for an 
hour. 

The wind, whose tender whisper in the 
May 
Set all the young blooms listening 
through th' grove. 
Sits rustling in the faded boughs to- 
day 
And makes his cold and unsuccessful 
love. 



The rose has 
red — 
The mullein -stalk its yellow stars 
have lost. 
And the proud meadow-pink hangs 
down her head 
Against earth's chilly bosom, witched 
with frost. 

The robin, that was busy all the June, 
Before the sun had kissed the top- 
most bough. 
Catching our hearts up in his golden 
tune, 
Has given place to the brown cricket 
now. 

The very cock crows lonesomely at 
morn — 
Each flag and fern the shrinking 
stream divides — 
Uneasy cattle low, and lambs forlorn 
Creep to their strawy sheds with net- 
tled sides. 

Shut up the door : who loves me must 
not look 
Upon the withered world, but haste 
to bring 
His lighted candle, and his story-book, 
And live with me the poetry of spring. 



DAMARIS. 



and 



You know th' forks of th' road, 
th' brown mill ."■ 
And how th' mill-stream, where th' 

three elms grow. 
Flattens its curly head and slips be- 
low 
That shelf of rocks which juts from out 
th' hill > 

You know th' field of sandstone, red 
and gray. 
Sloped to th' south ? and where th' 

sign-post stands, 
Silently lifting up its two black hands 
To point th' uneasy traveler on his 
way .' 

You must remember the long rippling 
ridge 
Of rye, that cut the level land in 
two, 



POEMS OF NATURE AND HOME. 



115 



And changed from blue to green, from 
green to blue, 
Summer after summer ? And th' one- 
arched bridge, 

Under the which, with joy surpassing 
words. 
We stole to see beneath the speckled 

breast 
Of th' wild mother, all the clay-built 
nest 
Set round with shining heads of little 
birds. 

Well, midway 'twixt th' rye-ridge and 
th' mill, 
In the old house with windows to the 

morn. 
The village beauty, Damaris, was 
born — 
There lives, in " maiden meditation," 
still. 

Stop you and mark, if you that way 
should pass. 
The old, familiar quince and apple- 
trees. 
Chafing against the wall with every 
breeze, 
And at the door the flag-stones, set in 
grass. 

There is the sunflower, with her starry 
face 
Leaned to her love ; and there, with 

pride elate, 
The prince's-feather — at th' garden- 
gate 
The green-haired plants, all gracious in 
their place. 

You '11 think you have not been an hour 
away — 
Seeing the stones, th' flowers, the 

knotty trees, 
And 'twixt the palings, strings of yel- 
low bees. 
Shining like streaks of light — but, 
welladay ! 

If Damaris happen at the modest 
door, 
In gown of silver gray and cap of 

snow — 
Your May-day sweetheart, forty years 
ago — 
The brief delusion can delude no 
more. 



A LESSON. 

Woodland, green and gay with dew, 
Here, to-day, I pledge anew 
All the love I gave to you 

When my heart was young and glad. 
And in dress of homespun plaid, 
Bright as any flower you had, 

Through your bushy ways I trod, 
Or, lay hushed upon your sod 
With my silence praising God. 

Never sighing for the town — 

Never giving back a frown 

To the sun that kissed me brown. 

When my hopes were of such stuff. 
That my days, though crude enough, 
Were with golden gladness rough — 

Timid creatures of the air — 
Little ground-mice, shy and fair — 
You were friendly with me there. 

Beeches gray, and solemn firs. 
Thickets full of bees and burs. 
You were then my school-masters, 

Teaching me as best you could, 

How the evil by the good — 

Thorns by flowers must be construed. 

Rivulets of silvery sound. 
Searching close, I always found 
Fretting over stony ground. 

And in hollows, cold and wet, 

Violets purpled into jet 

As if bad blood had been let ; 

While in every sunny place. 
Each one wore upon her face 
Looks of true and tender grace. 

Leaning from the hedge-row wall, 
Gave the rose her sweets to all, 
Like a royal prodigal. 

And the lily, priestlv white. 
Made a little saintly light 
In her chapel out of sight 

Heedless how the spider spun — 
Heedless of the brook that run 
Boldly winking at the sun. 



ii6 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



When the autumn clouds did pack 

Hue on hue, unto that black 

That 's bluish, like a serpent's back, 

Emptying all their cisterns out, 
While the winds in fear and doubt 
Whirled like dervises about, 

And the mushroom, brown and dry, 
On the meadow's face did lie, 
Shrunken like an evil eye — 

Shrunken all its fleshy skin. 
Like a lid that wrinkles in 
Where an eyeball once had been. 

How my soul within me cried. 

As along the woodland side 

All the flowers fell sick and died. 

But when Spring returned, she said, 
" They were sleeping, and not dead 
Thus must light and darkness wed." 

Since that lesson, even death 
Lies upon the glass of faith, 
Like the dimness of a breath. 



KATRINA ON THE PORCH. 

A BIT OF TURNER PUT INTO WORDS. 

An old, old house by the side of the sea. 
And never a picture poet would paint ; 
But I hold the woman above the saint, 

And the light of the hearth is more to me 
Than shimmer of air-built castle. 

It fits as it grew to the landscape there — 
One hardly feels as he stands aloof 
Where the sandstone ends, and the 
red slate roof 

Juts over the window, low and square. 
That looks on the wild sea-water. 

From the top of the hill so green and 
high 
There slopeth a level of golden moss. 
That bars ot scarlet and amber cross, 

And rolling out to the farther sky 
Is the world of wild sea-water. 

Some starved grape-vineyards round 
about — 
A zigzag road cut deep with ruts — 
A little cluster of fisher's huts. 



And the black sand scalloping in and out 
'Twixt th' land and th' wild sea-water. 

Gray fragments of some border towers. 
Flat, pellmell on a circling mound. 
With a furrow deeply worn all round 

By the feet of children through the 
flowers. 
And all by the wild sea-water. 

And there, from the silvery break o' th' 
day 
Till the evening purple drops to the 

land. 
She sits with her cheek like a rose in 
her hand. 
And her sad and wistful eyes oneway — 
The way of the wild sea-water. 

And there, from night till the yellowing 
morn 
Falls over the huts and th' scallops of 

sand — 
A tangle of curls like a torch in her 
hand — 
She sits and maketh her moan so lorn, 
With the moan of the wild sea-water. 

Only a study for homely eyes, 

And never a picture poet would paint ; 

But I hold the woman above the saint, 
And the light of the humblest hearth I 
prize 

O'er the luminous air-built castle. 



THE WEST COUNTRY. 

Have you been in our wild west coun- 
try ? then 

You have often had to pass 
Its cabins lying like birds' nests in 

The wild green prairie grass. 

Have you seen the women forget theit 
wheels 

As they sat at the door to spin — 
Have you seen the darning fall away 

From their fingers worn and thin. 

As they asked you news of the villages 
Where they were used to be, 

Gay girls at work in the factories 
With their lovers gone to sea ! 

Ah, have you thought of the bravery 
That no loud praise provokes — 



I 



POEMS OF NATURE AND HOME. 



117 



Of the tragedies acted in the lives 
Of poof, hard-working folks ! 

Of the little more, and the little more 
Of hardship which they press 

Upon their own tired hands to make 
The toil for the children less : 

And not in vain ; for many a lad 
Born to rough work and ways, 

Strips off his ragged coat, and makes 
Men clothe him with their praise. 



THE OLD HOMESTEAD. 

When skies are growing warm and 
bright, 

And in the woodland bowers 
The Spring-time in her pale, faint 
robes 

Is calHng up the flowers, 
When all with naked little feet 

The children in the morn 
Go forth, and in the furrows drop 

The seeds of yellow corn ; 
What a beautiful embodiment 

Of ease devoid of pride 
Is the good old-fashioned homestead, 

With its doors set open wide ! 

But when the happiest time is come, 

That to the year belongs, 
When all the vales are filled with gold 

And all the air with songs ; 
When fields of yet unripened grain, 

And yet ungarnered- stores 
Remind the thiifty husbandman 

Of ampler threshing-floors, 
How pleasant, from the din and dust 

Of the thoroughfare aloof, 
Stands the old-fashioned homestead. 

With steep and mossy roof ! 

When home the woodsman plods with 
axe 

Upon his shoulder swung. 
And in the knotted apple-tree ( 

Are scythe and sickle hung ; 
When low about her clay-built nest 

The mother swallow trills, 
And decorously slow, the cows 

Are wending down the hills ; 
What a blessed picture of comfort 

In the evening shadows red, 
Is the good old-fashioned homestead, 

With its bounteous table spread ! 



And when the winds moan wildly. 

When the woods are bare and brown. 
And when the swallow's clay-built nest 

From the rafter crumbles down ; 
When all the untrod garden-paths 

Are heaped with frozen leaves, 
And icicles, like silver spikes, 

Are set along the eaves ; 
Then when the book from the shelf is 
brought. 

And the fire-lights shine and play, 
In the good old-fashioned homestead, 

Is the farmer's holiday ! 

But whether the brooks be fringed with 
flowers, 

Or whether the dead leaves fall. 
And whether the air be full of songs. 

Or never a song at all, 
And whether the vines of the straw- 
berries 

Or frosts through the grasses run, 
And whether it rain or whether it shine 

Is all to me as one, 
For bright as brightest sunshine 

The light of memory streams 
Round the old-fashioned homestead. 

Where I dreamed my dream of 
dreams ! 



CONTRADICTION. 

I LOVE the deep quiet — all buried in 
leaves. 
To sit the day long just as idle as air, 
Till the spider grows tame at my elbow, 
and weaves, 
And toadstools come up in a row 
round my chair. 

I love the new furrows — the cones of 
the pine, 
The grasshopper's chirp, and the 
hum of the mote ; 
And short pasture-grass where the 
clover-blooms shine 
Like red buttons set on a holiday coat. 

Flocks packed in the hollows — the 
droning of bees, 
The stubble so brittle — the damp 
and flat fen ; 
Old homesteads I love, in their clusters 
of tr°es. 
And children and books, but not 
women nor men. 



Ii8 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



Yet, strange contradiction ! I live in 
the sound 
Of a sea-girdled city — 't is thus that 
it fell, 
And years, oh, how many ! have gone 
since I bound 
A sheaf for the harvest, or drank at a 
well. 

And if, kindly reader, one moment you 
wait 
To measure the poor little niche that 
you fill, 
I think you will own it is custom or 
fate 
That has made you the creature you 
are, not your will. 



MY DREAM OF DREAMS. 

Alone within my house I sit ; 

The lights are not for me. 
The music, nor the mirth ; and yet 

I lack not company. 

So gayly go the gay to meet. 
Nor wait my griefs to mend — 

My entertainment is more sweet 
Than thine, to-night, my friend. 

Whilst thou, one blossom in thy hand, 

Bewail'st my weary hours, 
Upon my native hills I stand 

Waist-deep among the flowers. 

I envy not a joy of thine ; 

For while I sit apart 
Soft summer, oh, fond friend of mine, 

Is with me in my heart. 

Aye, aye, I 'm young to-night once 
more ; 

The years their hold have loosed. 
And on the dear old homestead door 

I 'm watching, as I used, 

The sunset hang its scarlet fringe 
Along the low white clouds. 

While, radiant with their tender tinge, 
My visions come in crowds. 

The doves fly homeward over me. 
The red rose bravely gleams, 

And first and last and midst I see 
The dream of all my dreams. 



I need not say what dream it was, 
Nor how in life's lost hours 

It made the glory of the grass 
The splendor of the flowers. 

I need not wait to paint its glow 
With rainbow light nor sun ; 

Who ever loved that did not know 
There is no dream but one .'' 

My frosty locks grow bright and 
brown ; 

My step is light once more ; 
The world now dropping darkly down 

Comes greenly up before. 

Comes greenly up before my eyes, 
With gracious splendor clad, 

That world which now behind me lies 
So darkly dim, so sad. 

Shot over with the purpling morn, 

I see the long mists roll, 
And hear beneath the tasseled corn 

The winds make tender dole. 

I hear, and all my pulses rouse 
And give back trembling thrills, 

The farm-boy calling with his cows 
The echoes from the hills. 

So soft the plashing of the rain 
Upon the peach-tree leaves, 

It hardly breaks the silvery skein 
The dark-browed spider weaves. 

The grasshopper so faintly cries 
Beneath the dock's round burs 

That in the shadow where she lies 
The silence scarcely stirs. 

Bright tangles of the wings of birds 

Along the thickets shine. 
But oh, how poor are common words 

To tell of bliss divine ! 

So let thy soft tears cease to fall, 
My friend, nor longer wait ; 

I have my recompense for all 
Thou pitiest in my fate, 

The joys thou hold'st within thy glancj 
Thou canst not make to last ; 

Mine are uplifted to romance — 
Immortal, changeless, fast. 

When pleasures fly too far aloof, 
Or pain too sorely crowds. 



POEMS OF NATURE AND HOME. 



119 



I go and sit beneath my roof 
Of golden morning clouds. 

There back to life my dead hope starts, 
And well her pledge redeems, 

As close within my heart of hearts 
I hug my dream of dreams. 



IN THE DARK. 

Has the spring come back, my darling, 

Has the long and soaking rain 

Been moulded into the tender leaves 

Of the gay and growing grain — 

The leaves so sweet of barley and wheat 

All moulded out of the rain ? 

Oh, and I would I could see them grow, 

Oh, and I would I could see them blow, 

All over field and plain — 

The billows sweet of barley and wheat 

All moulded out of the rain. 

Are the flowers dressed out, my darling, 
In their kerchiefs plain or bright — 
The groundwort gay, and the lady of 

May, 
In her petticoat pink and white ? 
The fair little flowers, the rare little 

flowers. 
Taking and making the light ? 
Oh, and I would I could see them all, 
The little and low, the proud and tall, 
In their kerchiefs brave and bright, 
Stealing out of the morns and eves, 
To braid embroidery round their leaves, 
The gold and scarlet light. 

Have the birds come back, my darling, 

The birds from over the sea ? 

Are they cooing and courting together 

In bush and bower and tree .'' 

The mad little birds, the glad little birds. 

The birds from over the sea ! 

Dh, and I would I could hear them sing. 

Oh, and I would I could see them 

swing 
In the top of our garden tree ! 
The mad little birds, the glad little 

birds, 
The birds from over the sea ! 

Are they building their nests, my dar- 
ling, 

In the stubble, brittle and brown ? 

A.re they gathering threads, and silken 
shreds, 



And wisps of wool and down, 

With their silver throats and speckled 

coats. 
And eyes so bright and so brown ? 
Oh, and I would I could see them 

make 
And line their nests for love's sweet 

sake. 
With shreds of wool and down. 
With their eyes so bright and brown ! 



AN INVALID'S PLEA. 

O SUMMER ! my beautiful, beautiful 
summer ! 
I look in thy face, and I long so to 
live ; 
But ah ! hast thou room for an idle 
new-comer. 
With all things to take, and with 
nothing to give ? 
With all things to take of thy dear 
loving-kindness. 
The wine of thy sunshine, the dew of 
thy air ; 
And with nothing to give but the deaf- 
ness and blindness 
Begot in the depths of an utter de- 
spair .'' 

As if the gay harvester meant but to 
screen her. 
The black spider sits in her low loom, 
and weaves : 
A lesson of trust to the tender-eyed 
gleaner 
That bears in her brown arms the 
gold of the sheaves. 
The blue-bird that trills her low lay in 
the bushes 
Provokes from the robin a merrier 
glee; 
The rose pays the sun for his kiss with 
her blushes. 
And all things pay tithes to thee — 
all things but me. 

At even, the fire-flies trim with their 
glimmers 
The wild, weedy skirts of the field 
and the wood ; 
At morning, those dear little yellow- 
winged swimmers. 
The butterflies, hasten to make their 
place good. 



I20 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



The violet, always so white and so 
saintly ; 
The cardinal, warming the frost with 
her blaze ; 
The ant, keeping house at her sand- 
hearth so quaintly 
Reproaches my idle and indolent 
ways. 

When o'er the high east the red morn- 
ing is breaking. 
And driving the amber of starlight 
behind. 
The land of enchantment I leave, on 
awaking, 
Is not so enchanted as that which I 
find. 
And when the low west by the sunset 
is flattered, 
And locust and katydid sing up their 
best. 



Peace comes to my thoughts, that were 
used to be fluttered, 
Like doves when an eagle's wing 
darkens their nest. 

The green little grasshopper, weak as 
we deem her. 
Chirps, day in and out, for the sweet 
right to live ; 
And canst thou, O summer ! make 
room for a dreamer, 
With all things to take, and with 
nothing to give ? 
Room only to wrap her hot cheeks in 
thy shadows. 
And all on thy daisy-fringed pillows 
to lie, 
And dream of the gates of the glorious 
meadows. 
Where never a rose of the roses 
shall die ! 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



THE BRIDAL VEIL. 

We 're married, they say, and you think 

you have won me, — 
Well, take this white veil from my head, 

and look on me ; 
Here 's matter to vex you, and matter 

to grieve you, 
Here 's doubt to distrust you, and faith 

to believe you, — 
I am all as you see, common earth, 

common dew ; 
Be wary, and mould me to roses, not 

rue ! 

Ah ! shake out the filmy thing, fold 
after fold. 

And see if you have me to keep and to 
hold, — 

Look close on my heart — see the worst 
of its sinning, — 

It is not yours to-day for the yester- 
day's winning — 

The past is not mine — I am too proud 
to borrow — 

You must go to new heights if I love 
you to-morrow. 

We 're married ! I 'm plighted to hold 
up your praises. 

As the turf at your feet does its hand- 
ful of daisies ; 

That way lies my honor, — my pathway 
of pride, 

But, mark you, if greener grass grow 
either side, 

I shall know it, and keeping in body 
with you. 

Shall walk in my spirit with feet on the 
dew ! 

We 're married ! Oh, pray that our 

love do not fail ! 
I have wings flattened down and hid 

under my veil : 



They are subtle as light — you can 

never undo them, 
And swift in their flight — you can 

never pursue them. 
And spite of all clasping, and spite of 

all bands, 
I can slip like a shadow, a dream, from 

your hands. 

Nay, call me not cruel, and fear not to 

take me, 
I am yours for my life-time, to be what 

you make me, — 
To wear my white veil for a sign, or a 

cover, 
As you shall be proven my lord, or my 

lover ; 
A cover for peace that is dead, or a 

token 
Of bliss that can never be written or 

spoken. 



PITILESS FATE. 

I SAW in my dream a wonderful 
stream, 
And over the stream was a bridge so 
slender, 
And over the white there was scarlet 
light. 
And over the scarlet a golden splen- 
dor. 

And beyond the bridge was a goodly 
ridge 
Where bees made honey and corn 
was growing, 
And down that way through the gold 
and gray 
A gay young man in a boat was row- 
ing. 



122 



I could see from the shore that a rose 
he wore 

Stuck in his button-hole, rare as the 
rarest, 
And singing a song and rowing along, 
I guessed his face to be fair as the 
fairest. 

And all by the corn where the bees at 
morn 
Made combs of honey — with breath- 
ing bated, 
I saw by the stream (it was oaly a 
dream) 
A lovely lady that watched and 
waited. 

There were fair green leaves in her 
silken sleeves, 
And loose her locks in the winds were 
blowing, 
And she kissed to land with her milk- 
white hand 
The gay young man in the boat a-row- 
ing. 

And all so light in her apron white 
She caught the little red rose he cast 
her, 
And, " Haste ! " she cried, with her arms 
so wide, 
" Haste, sweetheart, haste ! " but the 
boat was past her. 

And the gray so cold ran over the 
gold. 
And she sighed with only the winds to 
hear her — 
" He loves me still, and he rowed with 
a will, 
But pitiless Fate, not he, was steer- 



And there till the morn blushed over the 
corn. 
And over the bees in their sweet 
combs humming. 
Her locks with the dew drenched 
through and through 
She watched and waited for her false 
love's coming ! 

But the maid to-day who reads my lay 
May keep her young heart light as a 
feather — 
It was only a dream, the bridge and the 
stream, 
And lady and lover, and all together. 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 

THE LOVER'S INTERDICT. 



Stop, traveler, just a moment at ml 

gate. 
And I will give you news so very 

sweet 
That you will thank me. Where the 

branches meet 
Across your road, and droop, as with the 

weight 
Of shadows laid upon them, pause, I 

pray, 
And turn aside a little from your way. 

You see the drooping branches over- 
spread 

With shadows, as I told you — look 
you now 

To the high elm-tree with the dead 
white bough 
Loose swinging out of joint, and there, 
with head 

Tricked out with scarlet, pouring his 
wild lay. 

You see a blackbird : turn your step 
that way. 

Holding along the honeysuckle hedge, 
Make for the meadows lying down so 

low ; 
Ah ! now I need not say that you must 

go 
No farther than that little silver wedge 
Of daisy-land, pushed inward by the 

flood 
Betwixt the hills — you could not, if 

you would. 

For you will see there, as the sun goes 
down. 

And freckles all the daisy leaves with 
gold, 

A little maiden, in their evening fold 
Penning two lambs — her soft, fawn- 
colored gown 

Tucked over hems of violet, by a 
hand 

Dainty as any lady's in the land. 

Such gracious light she will about hei 
bring. 
That, when the day, being wedded to 

the shade, 
Wears the moon's circle, blushing, as 
the maid 
Blushes to wear the unused marriaget 
ring. 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



123 



And all the quickened clouds do fall 

astir 
With daffodils, your thoughts will stay 

with her. 

No ornaments but her two sapphire 

eyes, 
And the twin roses in her cheeks that 

grow, 
The nice-set pearls, that make so fine 

a show 
When that she either softly smiles or 

sighs, 
And the long tresses, colored like a 

bee — 
Brown, with a sunlight shimmer. 

You will see, 

When you have ceased to watch the 
airy spring 
Of her white feet, a fallen beech hard 

by, 

The yellow earth about the gnarled 

roots dry. 
And if you hide there, you will hear her 

sing 
That song Kit Marlowe made so long 

ago — 
" Come live with me, and be my love," 

you know. 

Dear soul, you would not be at heaven's 
high gate 

Among the larks, that constellated 
hour. 

Nor locked alone in some green- 
hearted bower 
Among the nightingales, being in your 
fate. 

By fortune's sweet selection, graced 
above 

All grace, to hear that — Come, and 
be my love ! 

But when the singer singeth down the 

sweets 
To that most maiden-like and lovely 

bed — 
All out of soft persuasive roses 

spread — 
Vou must not touch the fair and flowery 

sheets 
Even in your thought ! and from your 

perfect bliss 
I furthermore must interdict you this : 

IVhen all the wayward mists, because 
of her. 



Lie in their white wings, moveless, on 
the air, 

You must not let the loose net of her 
hair 
Drag your heart to her ! nor from 
hushed breath stir 

Out of your sacred hiding. As you 
guess 

She is my love — this woodland shep- 
herdess. 

The cap, the clasps, the kirtle fringed 

along 
With myrtles, as the hand of dear old 

Kit 
Did of his cunning pleasure broider it. 
To ornament that dulcet piece of song 
Immortalled with refrains of — Live 

with me ! 
These to your fancy, one and all are 

free. 

But, favored traveler, ere you quit my 

gate, 

Promise to hold it, in your mind to be 

Enamored only of the melody, 

Else will I pray that all yon woody weight 

Of branch and shadow, as you pass 

along, 
Crush you among the echoes of the 
song. 



SNOWED UNDER. 

Come let us talk together. 

While the sunset fades and dies, 
And, darling, look into my heart, 

And not into my eyes. 

Let us sit and talk together 
In the old, familiar place, 

But look deep down into my heart, 
Not up into my face. 

And with tender pity shield me — 
I am just a withered bough — 

I was used to have your praises. 
And you cannot praise me now. 

You would nip the blushing roses ; 

They were blighted long ago, 
But the precious roots, my darling, 

Are alive beneath the snow. 

And in the coming spring-time 
They will aL' to beauty start — 



124 



POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



Oh, look not in my face, beloved, 
But only in my heart ! 

You will not find the little buds, 

So tender and so bright ; 
They are snowed so deeply under. 

They will never come to light. 

So look, I pray you, in my heart, 

And not into my face, 
And think about that coming spring 

Of greenness and of grace, 

When from the winter-laden bough 
The weight of snow shall drop away, 

And give it strength to spring into 
The life of endless May. 



AN EMBLEM. 

What is my little sweetheart like, d' 
you say ? 
A simple question, yet a hard, to an- 
swer ; 
But I will tell you in my stammering 
way 
The best I can, sir. 

When I was young — that 's neither 
here nor there — 
I read, and reading made my eyelids 
glisten ; 
But I '11 repeat the story, if you care 
To stay and listen. 

A wild rose, born within a modest glen, 
And sheltered by the leaves of thorny 
bushes. 
Drooped, being commended to the eyes 
of men, 
And died of blushes. 

Now, if there were — and one may well 
suppose 
There never was a flower of such 
rare splendor. 
Much less a rudely nurtured wilding rose 
Withal so tender — 

Put say there were ; what is a rose the 
less, 
When all from east to west the May 
is blazing, 
That any tuneful bard her face should 
miss, 
And give her praising .'' 



Yet say there did, and that her heart 
did break, 
As tells the romance of my early 
reading, 
Then I that fair, fond flower for emblem 
take — 
Sir, are you heeding ? — 

Aye, say there were, and that she spent 
her days 
In ignorance of her proud poetic 
glory ; 
Only her soft death making to the 
praise 
Of her brief story : 

Even such a wild, bright flower, and so 
apart 
In her low modest house, my little 
maid is — 
Sweet-hearted, shy, and strange to all 
the art 
Of your fine ladies. 

So tender, that to death she needs must 
grieve. 
Stabbed by the glances of bold eyes, 
is certain ; 
Take you the emblem, then, and give 
me leave 
To drop the curtain. 



QUEEN OF ROSES. 

My little love hath made 
A garden that all sweetest sweetness 
holds. 
And there for hours upon a piece of 
shade 
Fringed round with marjoram and mari- 
golds, 
She lieth dreaming, on her arm of 

pearl, 
My pretty little love — my garden-girl. 

The walks are one and all 
Enriched along their borders with wild 

mint. 
And pinks, and gilliflowers, both large 

and small ; 
But where her little feet do leave a 

print, 
Whether on grass or ground, it dotli 

displace 
And make of non-effect all othei 

grace. 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



125 



Her speech is all so fair 
The winds disgraced, do from her pres- 
ence run, 

And when she combeth loose her 
heavenly hair 
She giveth entertainment to the sun. 

Oh, just to touch the leasf of all thy 
curls, 

My golden head — my queen of gar- 
den-girls. 

Her shawl-corners of snow 
Like wings drop down about her when 
she stands 
And never queen's lace made so fair 
a show 
As that doth, knitted in her two white 
hands ; 
The while some sudden look of cold 

surprise 
Shoots like an angry comet to her 
eyes. 

When she doth walk abroad 
Her subject flowers do one and all 
arise ; 
The low ones housed meekly in the 
sod 
Do kiss her feet — the lofty ones, her 
eyes. 
Oh sad for him whose seeing hath 

not seen 
My rose of roses, and my heart's dear 
queen. 

T 'm tying all my hours 
With sighs together — " Welladay ! ah 
me ! " 
Because I cannot choose nor words, 
nor flowers. 
Wherewith to lure my love to marry 
me ! 
I '11 ask her what the wretched man 

must say 
Who loves a saint, and woo her just 
that way. 

Else in some honeyed phrase 
[ '11 fit a barb no clearest sight can 

see. 
And toss it up and down all cunning 

ways. 
Until I catch and drag her heart to 

me ! 
Ah, then I '11 tease her, for my life of 

pain, 
For she shall never have it back 

again. 



NOW AND THEN. 

" Sing me a song, my nightingale, 
Hid in among the twilight flowers ; 
And make it low," he said, " I pray, 
And make it sweet." But she said, 
" Nay ; 
Come when the morn begins to trail 
Her golden glories o'er the gray — 
Morn is the time for love's all-hail ! " 
He said, " The morning is not ours ! 

" Then give me back, my heart's delight, 

Hid in among the twilight flowers. 
The kiss I gave you yesterday — 

See how the moon this way has leant. 
As if to yield a soft consent. 
Surely," he said, "you will requite 
My love in this .-' " But she said " Nay." 
" Yea, now," he said. But she said, 

" Hush ! 
And come to me at morning-blush." 
He said, " The morning is not ours ! 

" But say, at least, you love me, love. 

Hid in among the twilight flowers ; 
No winds are listening, far or near — 
The sleepy doves will never hear." 

" Ah, leave me in my sacred glen ; 

And when the saffron morn shall close 

Her misty arms about the rose, 
Come, and my speech, my thought shall 

prove — 
Not now," she said; "not now, but 
then." 

He said, " The morning is not ours ! " 



THE LADY TO THE LOVER. 

Since thou wouldst have me show 
In what sweet way our love appears 

to me. 
Think of sweet ways, the sweetest 
that can be. 
And thou may'st partly dream, but 
canst not know : 
For out of heaven no bliss — 
Disshadowed lies, like this, 
Therefore similitudes thou must forego. 

Thou seem'st myselfs lost part. 
That hath, in a new compact, dearer 

close ; 
And if that thou shouldst take a 

broken rose 



126 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



And fit the leaves again about the heart, 
That mended flower would be 
A poor, faint sign to thee 

Of how one's self about the other 
grows. 

Think of the sun and dew 

Walled in some little house of leaves 

from sight, 
Each from the other taking, giving 
light, 
And interpenetrated through and 
through ; 
Feeding, and fed upon — 
All given, and nothing gone. 
And thou art still as far as day from 
night. 

Sweeter than honey-comb 

To little hungry bees, when rude 

winds blow ; 
Brighter than wayside window-lights 
that glow 
Through the cold rain, to one that has 
no home ; 
But out of heaven, no bliss 
Disshadowed lies, like this, — 
Therefore similitudes thou must forego. 



LOVE'S SECRET SPRINGS. 

In asking how I came to choose 

This flower that makes my brow to 
shine, 
You seem to say, you did not lose 
Your choice, my friend, when I had 
mine ! 
And by your lifted brow, exclaim, 
" What charms have charmed you ? 
name their name ! " 

Nay, pardon me — I cannot say 

These are the charms, and those the 
powers. 

And being in a trance one day, 

I took her for my flower of flowers. 

Love doth not flatter what he gives — 

But here, sir, are some negatives. 

'T is not the little milk-white hands 
That grace whatever work they do ; 

'T is not the braided silken bands 
That shade the eyes of tender blue ; 

And not the voice so low and sweet 

That holds me captive at her feet. 



'T is not in frowns, knit up with smiki. 

Wherewith she scolds me for my 
sins, 
Nor yet in tricksy ways nor wiles 

That I can say true love begins ! 
Out of such soil it did not grow ; 
It was, — and that is all I know. 

'T is not her twinkling feet so small, 
Nor shoulder glancing from her sleeve, 

Nor yet her virtues, one nor all — 
Love were not love to ask our leave; 

She was not wooed, nor was I won — 

What draws the dew-drop to the sun.' 

Pardon me, then, I cannot tell, — 
Nor can you hope to understand, — 

Why I should love my love so well ; 
Nor how, upon this border land. 

It fell that she should go with me 

Through time into eternity. 



AT SEA. 

Brown-faced sailor, tell me true — 
Our ship I fear is but illy thriving. 
Some clouds are black and some are 

blue. 
The women are huddled together be- 
low. 
Above the captain treads to and fro ; 
Tell me, for who shall tell but you. 
Whither away our ship is driving ! 

The wind is blowing a storm this way. 
The bubbles in my face are wink- 

'"S — 

'T is growing dark in the middle of 
day 

And I cannot see the good green land. 

Nor a ridge of rock, nor a belt of 
sand ; 

Oh, kind sailor, speak and say. 

How long might a little boat be sink- 
ing ? 

More saucily the bubbles wink ; 

God's mercy keep us from foul 

weather. 
And from drought with nothing but 

brine to drink. 
I dreamed of a ship with her ribs stove 

in. 
Last night, and waking thought of my 

sin; 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



127 



How long would a strong man swim, 
d' y' think, 
If we were all in th' sea together ? 

The sailor frowned a bitter frown, 
And answered, " Aye, there will be 

foul weather, — 
All men must die, and some must 

drown. 
And there is n't water enough in the 

sea 
To cleanse a sinner like you or me ; 
O Lord, the ships I 've seen go down, 
Crew and captain and all together ! " 

The sailor smiled a smile of cheer, 

And looked at me a look of wonder, 
And said, as he wiped awav a tear, 
" Forty years I 've been off the land 
And God has held me safe in his hand : 
He ruleth the storm — He is with us 
here, 
And his love for us no sin can sun- 
der." 



A CONFESSION. 

I KNOW a little damsel 

As light of foot as the air, 
And with smile as gay 
As th' sun o' th' May 

And clouds of golden hair. 
She sings with the larks at morning, 

And sings with the doves at e'en, 
And her cheeks they shine 
Like a rose on the vine. 

And her name is Charlamine. 
To plague me and to please me 

She knows a thousand arts, 
And against my will 
I love her still 

With all my heart of hearts ! 

I know another damsel 

With eyelids lowly weighed. 
And so pale is she 
That she seems to me 

Like a blossom blown in the shade. 
Her hands are white as charity. 

And her voice is low and sweet, 
And she runneth quick 
To the sinful and sick. 

And her name is Marguerite. 
The broken and bowed in spirit 

She maketh straight and whole, 
And I sit at her knee 



And she sings to me, 

And I love her with my soul. 

I know a lofty lady, 

And her name is Heleanore. 
And th' king o' the sky 
In her lap doth lie 

When she sitteth at her door. 
Her shoulder is curved like an eagle's 
wing 

When he riseth on his way, 
And my two little maids 
They laid in braids 

Her dark locks day by day. 
Her heart in the folds of her kerchief 

It doth not fall or rise. 
And afar I wait 
At her royal gate, 

And I love her with my eyes ! 

Now you that are wise in love-lore, 

Come teach your arts to me. 
For each of the darling damsels 

Is as sweet as she can be ! 
And if I wed with Charlamine 

Of the airy little feet, 
I shall sicken and sigh, 
I shall droop and die, 

For my gentle Marguerite ! 
And if I wed with Marguerite, 

Whom I so much adore, 
I shall long to go 
From her hand of snow 

To my Lady Heleanore ! 
And if I wed with Heleanore, 

Whom with my eyes I love, 
'Gainst all that is right, 
In my own despite, 

I shall false and faithless prove. 



EASTER BRIDAL SONG. 

Haste, little fingers, haste, haste ! 

Haste, little fingers, pearly ; 
And all along the slender waist, 

And up and down the silken sleeves 

Knot the darling and dainty leaves. 
And wind o' the south, blow light and 
fast, 

And bring the flowers so early ! 

Low, droop low, my tender eyes, 

Low, and al' demurely. 
And make the shining seams to run 
Like little streaks o' th' morning sun 

Through silver clouds so purely j 



128 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



And fall, sweet rain, fall out o' th' skies, 
And bring the flowers so early ! 

Push, little hands, from the bended face, 
The tresses crumpled curly, 

And stitch the hem in the frill of snow 

And give to the veil its misty flow, 
And melt, ye frosts, so surly ; 

And shine out, spring, with your days 
of grace. 
And bring the flowers so early ! 



PRODIGAL'S PLEA. 

Shine down, little head, so fair, 
From thy window in the wall ; 

Oh, my slighted golden hair, 

Like the sunshine round me fall — 

Little head, so fair, so bright, 

Fill my darkness with thy light ! 

Reach me down thy helping hand, 
Little sweetheart, good and true ; 

Shamed, and self-condemned, I stand, 
And wilt thou condemn me too ? 

Soilure of sin, be sure 

Cannot harm thy hand so pure. 

With thy quiet, calm my cry 

Pleading to thee from afar. 
Is it not enough that I 

With myself should be at war ? 
With thy cleanness, cleanse my blood ; 
With thy goodness, make me good. 

Eyes that loved me once, I pray, 

Be not crueller than death : 
Hide each sharp-edged glance away 

Underneath its tender sheath ! 
Make me not, sweet eyes, with scorn 
Mourn that ever I was born ! 

Oh, my roses ! are ve dead ; 

That in love's delicious day, 
Used to flower out ripe and red, 

Fast as kisses plucked away? 
Turn thy pale cheek, little wife ; . 
Let me warm them back to life. 

I have wandered, oh, so far ! 

From the way of truth and right ; 
Shine out for my guiding star. 

Little head, so dear and bright ; 
Dust of sin is on my brow — 
Good enot^gh for both, art thou ! 



THE SEAL FISHER'S WIFE. 

The west shines out through lines of 

jet, 
Like the side of a fish through the 

fisher's net. 
Silver and golden-brown ; 
And rocking the cradle, she sings so 

low, 
As backward and forward, and to and 

fro. 
She cards the wool for her gown. 

She sings her sweetest, she sings her 

best. 
And all the silver fades in the west, 

And all the golden-brown, 
And lowly leaning cradle across, 
She mends the fire with faggots and 
moss, 
And cards the wool for her gown. 

Gray and cold, and cold and gray. 
Over the look-out and over the bay. 

The sleet comes sliding down, 
And the blaze of the faggots flickers 

thin, 
And the wind is beating the ice-blocks 
in, 
As she cards the wool for her gown. 

The fisher's boats in the ice are crushed. 
And now her lullaby-song is hushed, — 

For sighs the singing drown, — 
And all, with fingers stiff and cold, 
She covers the cradle, fold on fold, 

With the carded wool of her gown. 

And there — the cards upon her knee, 
And her eyes wide open toward the 
sea, 

Where the fisher's boats went down — 
They found her all as cold as sleet. 
And her baby smiling up so sweet. 

From the carded wool of her gown. 



CARMIA. 

My Carmia, my life, my saint, 
No flower is sweet enough to paint 

Thy sweet, sweet face for me ! 
The rose-leaf nails, the slender wrist, 
The hand, the whitest ever kissed — 
Dear Carmia, what has Raphael missed 

In never seeing thee ! 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



129 



Oh to be back among the days 
Wherein she blessed me with her 
praise — 

She knew not how to frown ! 
The memory of that time doth seem 
Like dreaming of a lovely dream, 
Or like a golden broider-seam 

Stitched in some homely gown. 

No silken skein is half so soft 

As those long locks I combed so oft — 

No tender tearful skies — 
No violet darkling into jet — 
And all with daybreak dew-drops wet — 
No star, when first the sun is set, 

Is like my Carmia's eyes. 

But not the dainty little wrist. 
Nor hand, the whitest ever kissed, 

Nor face, so sweet to see, 
Nor words of praise, that so did bless, 
Nor rose-leaf nail, nor silken tress. 

Made her so dear to me. 

'T was nothing my poor words can 

tell. 
Nor charm of chance, nor magic spell 

To wane, and waste, and fall — 
I loved her to the utmost strain 
Of heart and soul and mind and brain. 
And Carmia loved me back again. 

And that is all-and-all ! 



EPITHALAMIUM. 

In the pleasant spring-time weather - 

Rosy morns and purple eves — 
When the little birds together 

Sit and sing among the leaves. 
Then it seems as if the shadows. 

With their interlacing boughs, 
Had been hung above the meadows 

For the plighting of their vows ! 

In the lighter, warmer weather. 

When the music softly rests, 
A.nd they go to work together 

For the building of their nests ; 
Then the branches, for a wonder, 

Seem uplifted everywhere. 
To be props and pillars under 

Little houses in the air. 

But when we see the meeting 
Of the lives that are to run 



Henceforward to the beating 
Of two hearts that are as one. 

When we hear the holy taking 
Of the vows that cannot break, 

Then it seems as if the making 
Of the world was for their sake. 



JENNIE. 

Now tell me all my fate, Jennie, — 

Why need I plainer speak ? 
For you see my foolish heart has bled 

Its secret in my cheek ! 

You must not leave me thus, Jennie,— 
You will not, when you know 

It is my life you 're treading on 
At every step you go. 

Ah, should you smile as now, Jennie, 
When the wintry weather blows, 

The daisy, waking out of sleep. 

Would come up through the snows. 

Shall our house be on the hill, Jennie, 
Where the sumach hedges grow ? 

You must kiss me, darling, if it 's yes, 
And kiss me if it 's no. 

It shall be very fine — the door 

With bean-vines overrun. 
And th' window toward the harvest- 
field 

Where first our love begun. 

What marvel that I could not mow 
When you came to rake the hay, 

For I cannot speak your name, Jen- 
nie, 
If I 've nothing else to say. 

Nor is it strange that when I saw 
Your sweet face in a frown, 

I hung my scythe in the apple-tree. 
And thought the sun was down. 

For when you sung the tune that ends 

With such a golden ring, 
The lark was made ashamed, and sat 

With her head beneath her wing. 

You need not try to speak, Jennie, 

You blush and tremble so, 
But kiss me, darling, if it 's yes. 

And kiss me if it 's no 1 



no 



THE POEMS OF ALIC& GARY. 



PICTURES OF MEMORY. 

Among the beautiful pictures 

That hang on Memory's wall, 
Is one of a dim old forest 

That seemeth best of all : 
Not for its gnarled oaks olden, 

Dark with the mistletoe ; 
Not for the violets golden 

That sprinkle the vale below ; 
Not for the milk-white lilies 

That lean from the fragrant hedge, 
Coquetting all day with the sunbeams, 

And stealing their shining edge ; 
Not for the vines on the upland 

Where the bright red berries be, 
Nor the pinks, nor the pale sweet cow- 
slip, 

It seemeth the best to me. 

I once had a little brother. 

With eyes that were dark and deep — 
In the lap of that old dim forest 

He lieth in peace asleep ; 
Light as the down of the thistle, 

Free as the winds that blow. 
We roved there the beautiful sum- 
mers. 

The summers of long ago ; 
But his feet on the hills grew weary, 

And, one of the autumn eves, 
I made for my little brother 

A bed of the yellow leaves. 

Sweetly his pale arms folded 

My neck in a meek embrace. 
As the light of immortal beauty 

Silently covered his face : 
And when the arrows of sunset 

Lodged in the tree-tops bright, 
He fell, in his saint-like beauty, 

Asleep by the gates of light. 
Therefore, of all the pictures 

That hang on Memory's wall, 
The one of the old dim forest 

Seemeth the best of all. 



MIRIAM. 

Like to that little homely flower 

That never from her rough house stirs 

While summer lasts, but sits and combs 
The sunbeams with her purple burs, 

So kept she in her house content 

While love's bright summer with her 
stayed ; 
But change works change, and since she 
met 
A shadow from the land of shade ; 

The ghost of that wild flower that sits 
In her rough house, and never stirs 

While summer lasts, has not a face 
So dead of meaning, as is hers. 

In vain the pitying year puts on 

Her rose - red mornings, for like 
streams 

Lost from the sunlight under banks 
Of wintry darkness, are her dreams. 

In vain among their clouds of green 
The wild birds sing — she says with 
tears 
Their sweet tongues stammer in the 
tunes 
They sang so well in other years. 

Her home in ruins lies, and thorns 
Choke with their briery arms, the 
door; 

What matter, says she, since that love 
Will cross the threshold, never more. 



O WINDS ! ye are too rough, too rough I 
O spring ! thou art not long enough 

For sweetness ; and for thee, 
O love ! thou still must overpass 
Time's low and dark and narrow glass, 

And fill eternity. 



POEMS 



GRIEF AND CONSOLATION. 



MOURN NOT. 

O MOURNER, mourn not vanished light, 
But fix your fearful hopes above ; 

The watcher, through the long, dark 
night, 
Shall see the daybreak of God's love. 

A land all green and bright and fair, 
Lies just beyond this vale of tears, 

And we shall meet, immortal there, 
The pleasures of our mortal years. 

He who to death has doomed our race. 
With steadfast faith our souls has 
armed. 

And made us children of his grace 
To go into the grave, unharmed. 

The storm may beat, the night may 
close. 
The face may change, the blood run 
chill, 
But his great love no limit knows, 
And therefore we should fear no ill. 

Dust as we are, and steeped in guilt, 
How strange, how wondrous, how 
divine. 

That He hath for us mansions built, 
Where everlasting splendors shine. 

Our days with beauty let us trim. 
As Nature trims with flowers the 
sod ; 

Giving the glory all to Him, — 

Our Friend, our Father, and our God. 



CONSOLATION. 



O FRIENDS, we are drawing nearer home 
As day by day goes by ; 



Nearer the fields of fadeless bloom, 
The joys that never die. 

Ye doubting souls, from doubt be free,-^ 
Ye mourners, mourn no more. 

For every wave of death's dark sea 
Breaks on that blissful shore. 

God's ways are high above our ways, -^ 

So shall we learn at length. 
And tune our lives to sing his praise 

With all our mind, might, strength. 

About our devious paths of ill 

He sets his stern decrees, 
And works the wonder of his will 

Through pains and promises. 

Strange are the mysteries He employs, 

Yet we his love will trust. 
Though it should blight our dearest 
joys, 

And bruise us mto dust. 



UNDER THE SHADOW. 

My sorrowing friend, arise and go 
About thy house with patient care ; 

The hand that bows thy head so low 
Will bear the ills thou canst not bear. 

Arise, and all thy tasks fulfill. 

And as thy day thy strength shall be •, 

Were there no power beyond the ill. 
The ill could not have come to thee. 

Though cloud and storm encompass 
thee. 
Be not afflicted nor afraid ; 
Thou knowest the shadow could not 
be 
Were there no sun beyond the shade. 



132 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



For thy beloved, dead and gone, 
Let sweet, not bitter, tears be shed ; 

Nor " open thy dark saying on 

The harp," as though thy faith were 
dead. 

Couldst thou even have them reap- 
pear 
In bodies plain to mortal sense. 
How were the miracle more clear 

To bring them than to take them 
hence ? 

Then let thy soul cry in thee thus 

No more, nor let thine eyes thus 
weep ; 

Nothing can be withdrawn from us 
That we have any need to keep. 

Arise, and seek some height to gain 
From life's dark lesson day by day. 

Not just rehearse its peace and pain — 
A wearied actor at the play. 

Nor grieve that will so much transcends 
Thy feeble powers, but in content 

Do what thou canst, and leave the ends 
And issues with the Omnipotent. 

Dust as thou art, and born to woe, 
Seeing darkly, and as through a 
glass. 
He made thee thus to be, for lo ! 

He made the grass, and flower of 
grass. 

The tempest's cry, the thunder's moan. 
The waste of waters, wild and dim. 

The still small voice thou hear'st 
alone — 
All, all alike interpret Him. 

Arise, my friend, and go about 

Thy darkened house with cheerful 
feet ; 

Yield not one jot to fear nor doubt. 
But, baffled, broken, still repeat : 

" 'T is mine to work, and not to win ; 

The soul must wait to have her 
wings ; 
Even time is but a landmark in 

The great eternity of things. 

" Is it so much that thou below, 
O heart, shouldst fail of thy desire. 

When death, as we believe and know. 
Is but a call to come up higher .'' " 



LOST LILIES. 

Show you her picture ? Here it lies ? 

Hands of lilies, and lily-like brow ; 
Mouth that is bright as a rose, and eyes 

That are just the soul's sweetest over- 
flow. 

Darling shoulders, softly pale. 
Borne by the undulating play 

Of the life below, up out of their veil. 
Like lilies out o' the waves o' the May 

Throat as white as the throat of a swan. 
And all as proudly graceful held ; 

Fair, bare bosom, " clothed upon 
With chastity," like the lady of eld. 

Tender lids, that drooping down, 
Chide your glances overbold ; 

Fair, wit^h a golden gleam in the brown, 
And brown again in the gleamy gold. 

These on your eyes like a splendor fall. 
And you marvel not at my love, I see ; 

But it was not one, and it was not all. 
That made her the angel she was to 
me. 

So shut the picture and put it away, 
Your fancy is only thus misled ; 

What can the dull, cold semblance say, 
When the spirit and life of the life is 
fled .? 

Seven long years, and seven again. 
And three to the seven — a weary 
space — 

The weary fingers of the rain 

Have drawn the daisies over her face. 

Seven and seven years, and three. 
The leaves have faded to death in the 
frost, 
Since the shadow that made for me 
The world a shadow my pathway 
crossed. 

And now and then some meteor gleam 
Has broken the gloom of my life 
apart. 
Or the only thread of some raveled 
dream 
Has slid like sunshine in my heart. 

But never a planet, steady and sti!l, 
And never a rainbow, brave and fin€v 



POEMS OF GRIEF AND CONSOLATION: 



133 



And never the flowery head of a hill 
Has made the cloud of my life to 
shine. 

Yet God is love ! and this I trust, 
Though summer is over and sweet- 
ness done, 
That all my lilies are safe, in the dust. 
As they were in the glow of the great, 
glad sun. 

Yea, God is love, and love is might ! 

Mighty as surely to keep as to make ; 
And the sleepers, sleeping in death's 
dark night. 

In the resurrection of life shall wake. 



A WONDER. 

Still alway groweth in me the great 

wonder, 
When all the fields are blushing like 

the dawn. 
And only one poor little flower ploughed 

under, 
That I can see no flowers, that one 

being gone : 
No flower of all, because of one being 

gone. 

Aye, ever in me groweth the great 

wonder, 
When all the hills are shining, white 

and red. 
And only one poor little flower ploughed 

under, 
That it were all as one if all were 

dead : 
Aye, all as one if all the flowers were 

dead. 

I cannot feel the beauty of the roses ; 
Their soft leaves seem to me but 
layers of dust ; 
Out of my opening hand each blessing 
closes : 
Nothing is left to me but my hope 

and trust, 
Nothing but heavenly hope and heav- 
enly trust. 

I get no sweetness of the sweetest 
places ; 
My house, my friends no longer com- 
fort me ; 



Strange somehow grow the old familiar 

faces ; 
For I can nothing have, not having 

thee ; 
All my possessions I possessed 

through thee. 

Having, I have them not — strange con- 
tradiction ! 

Heaven needs must cast its shadow 
on our earth ; 
Yea, drown us in the waters of afflic- 
tion 

Breast high, to make us know our 
treasure's worth, 

To make us know how much our love 
is worth. 

And while I mourn, the anguish of my 
story 

Breaks, as the wave breaks on the 
hindering bar : 
Thou art but hidden in the deeps of 
glory. 

Even as the sunshine hides the les- 
sening star. 

And with true love I love thee from 
afar. 

I know our Father must be good, not 

evil, 

And murmur not, for faith's sake, at 

my ill ; 

Nor at the mystery of the working cavil, 

That somehow bindeth all things in 

his will, 
And, though He slay me, makes me 
trust Him still. 



MOST BELOVED. 

My heart thou makest void, and full ; 

Thou giv'st, thou tak'st away my care ; 
O most beloved ! most beautiful ! 

I miss, and find thee everywhere ! 

In the sweet water, as it flows ; 

The winds, that kiss me as they pass ; 
The starry shadow of the rose. 

Sitting beside her on the grass ; 

The d.-iffodilly trying to bless 

With better light the beauteous air; 

The lily, wearing the white dress 
Of sanctuary, to be more fair ; 



134 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



The lithe-armed, dainty-fingered briar, 
That in the woods, so dim and drear, 

Lights up betimes her tender nre 
To soothe the liomesick pioneer ; 

The moth, his brown sails balancing 
Along the stubble, crisp and dry ; 

The ground-flower, with a blood-red 
ring 
On either hand ; the pewet's cry ; 

The friendly robin's gracious note ; 

The hills, with curious weeds o'errun ; 
The althea, in her crimson coat 

Tricked out to please the wearied 
sun ; 

The dandelion, whose golden share 
Is set before the rustic's plough ; 

The hum of insects in the air ; 

The blooming bush ; the withered 
bough ; 

The coming on of eve ; the springs 
Of daybreak, soft and silver bright ; 

The frost, that with rough, rugged wings 
Blows down the cankered buds ; the 
white, 

Long drifts of winter snow ; the heat 
Of August falling still and wide ; 

Broad corn fields ; one chance stalk of 
wheat. 
Standing with bright head hung aside : 

All things, my darling, all things seem 
In some strange way to speak of 
thee ; 
Nothing is half so much a dream, 
. Nothing so much reality. 



MY DARLINGS. 

When steps are hurrying homeward, 
And night the world o'erspreads, 

And I see at the open windows 
The shining of little heads, 

I think of you, my darlings, 

In your low and lonesome beds. 

And when the latch is lifted, 
And I hear the voices glad, 

I feel my arms more empty. 
My heart more widely sad ; 

For we measure dearth of blessings 
By the blessings we have had. 



But sometimes in sweet visions 
My faith to sight expands. 

And with my babes in his bosom, 
My Lord before me stands. 

And I feel on my head bowed lowly 
The touches of little hands. 

Then pain is lost in patience, 
And tears no longer flow : 

They are only dead to the sorrow 
And sin of life, I know ; 

For if they were not immortal 
My love would make them so. 



IN DESPAIR. 

I KNOW not what the world may be, — 

For since I have nor hopes nor fears, 

All things seem strange and far to me, 

As though I had sailed on some sad sea, 

For years and years, and years and 

years ! 

Sailed through blind mists, you under- 
stand, 
And leagues of bleak and bitter 
foam ; 
Seeing belts of rock and bars of sand, 
But never a strip of flowery land, 
And never the light of hearth or home. 

All day and night, all night and day, 
I sit in my darkened house alone ; 
Come thou, whose laughter sounds so 

gay. 
Come hither, for charity come ! and 
say 
What flowers are faded, and what are 
blown. 

Does the great, glad sun, as he used to, 
rise .'' 
Or is it always a weary night ? 
A shadow has fallen across my eyes, 
Come hither and tell me about the 
skies, — 
Are there drops of rain ? are there 
drops of light .'' 

Keep not, dear heart, so far away, 
With thy laughter light and laughter 
low. 
But come to my darkened house, I 

pray, 
And tell nie what of the fields to-day, — > 
Or lilies, or snow ? or lilies, or snow? 



POEMS OF GRIEF AND CONSOLATlOAr. 



135 



Do the hulls of the ripe nuts hang 

apart ? 
Do the leaves of the locust drop in the 

well ? 
Or is it the time for the buds to start ? 
O gay little heart, O little gay heart, 
Come hither and tell, come hither 

and tell ! 

The day of my hope is cold and dead. 
The sun is down and the light is 
gone ; 
Come hither thou of the roses red, 
Of the gay, glad heart, and the golden 
head, 
And tell of the dawn, of the dew and 
the dawn. 



WAIT. 



Go not far in the land of light ! 

A little while by the golden gate, 
Lest that I lose you out of sight, 

Wait, my darling, wait. 

Forever now from your happy eyes 
Life's scenic picture has passed away ; 

You have entered into realities, 
And I am yet at the play ! 

Yet at the play of time — through all, 
Thinking of you, and your high es- 
tate ; 

A little while, and the curtain will fall — 
Wait, my darling, wait ! 

Mine is a dreary part to do — 

A mask of mirth on a mourning 
brow ; 
The chance approval, the flower or two, 

Are nothing — nothing now ! 

The last sad act is drawing on ; 

A little while by the golden gate 
Of the holy heaven to which you are 
gone, 

Wait, my darling, wait. 



THE OTHER SIDE. 

I DREAMED I had a plot of ground. 
Once on a time, as story saith, 

A.11 closed in and closed round 
With a great wall, as black as death. 



I saw a hundred mornings break, 
So far a little dream may reach ; 

And, like a blush on some fair cheek. 
The spring-time mantling over each. 

Sweet vines o'erhung, like vernal floods, 
The wall, I thought, and though I 
spied 

The glorious promise of the buds, 
They only bloomed the other side. 

Tears, torments, darkened all my 
ground, 
Yet Heaven, by starts, above me 
gleamed ; 
I saw, with senses strangely bound, 
And in my dreaming "knew I dreamed. 

Saying to my heart, these things are 
signs 

Sent to instruct us that 't is ours 
Duly to dress and keep our vines, 

Waiting in patience for the flowers. 

But when the angel, feared by all, 
Across my hearth his shadow spread, 

The rose that climbed my garden wall 
Had bloomed, the other side, I said. 



A WINTRY WASTE. 

The boughs they blow across the 
pane. 
And my heart is stirred with sudden joy. 
For I think 't is the shadow of my boy, 

My long lost boy, come home again 
To love, and to live with me ; 
And I put the work from off my knee. 
And open the door with eager haste — 
There lieth the cold, wild winter waste. 
And that is all I see ! 

The boughs they drag against the ' 
eaves, 
I hear them early, I hear them late. 
And I think 't is the latch of the door- 
yard gate. 
Or a step on the frozen leaves. 
And I say to my heart, he is slow, he is 

slow, 
And I call him loud and I call him low, 
And listen, and listen, again and again, 
And I see the wild shadows go over the 

pane. 
And the dead leaves, as they fall, 
I hear, and that is all. 



136 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



But fancy only half deceives — 
My joys are counterfeits of joy. 
For I know he never will come, my 
boy ; 

And I see through my make-believes, 
Only the wintry waste of snow, 
Where he lieth so cold, and lieth so 
low, 

And so far from the light and me : 
And boughs go over the window-pane, 
And drag on the lonely eaves, in vain, — 

That waste is all I see. 



THE SHADOW. 

In vain the morning trims her brows, 
A shadow all the sunshine shrouds ; 

The moon at evening vainly ploughs 
Her golden furrows in the clouds. 

In vain the morn her splendor hath ; 

The stars, in vain, their gracious 
cheer ; 
There moves a phantom on my path, 

A shapeless phantom that I fear. 

The summer wears a weary smile, 
A weary hum the woodland fills ; 

The dusty road looks tired the while 
It climbs along the sleepy hills. 

Still do I strive to build my song 
Against this grim aggressive gloom ; 

hope, I say, be strong, be strong ! 
Some special, saving grace must come. 

1 sit and talk of sunnier skies, 

Of flowers with healing in their 
gleams. 
But still the shapeless shadow flies 
Before me to the land of dreams. 

O friends of mine, who sit dismayed 
And watch, I cry, with bated breath ; 

Yet from their answering shrink afraid, 
Lest that they name the name of 
Death. 



HOW PEACE CAME. 

As the still hours toward midnight wore. 
She called to me — her voice was low 
And soft as snow that falls in snow — 

She called my name, and nothing more. 



Sleeping, I felt the life-blood stir 

With piercing anguish all my heart — • 
I felt my dreams like curtains part. 

And straightway passed through them 
to her. 

Yet, 'twixt my answer and her call. 
My thoughts had time enough to 

run 
Through ever\'thing that I had done 

From my youth upward. One and all. 

The harmful words which I had said — 
The sinful thoughts, the looks un- 
true. 
Straight into fearful phantoms grew, 

And ranged themselves about her bed. 

Weeping, I called her names most 
sweet, 
But still the phantoms, evil-eyed. 
Between us stood, and though I died, 

I could not even touch her feet. 

My soul within me seemed to groan — 
My cheek was burning up with 

shame — 
I called each dark deed by its name, 

And humbly owned it for my own. 

My tongue was loosed — my heart was 
free — 
I took the little shining head 
Betwixt my palms — the phantoms 
fled. 
And Heaven was moved, and came to 
me. 



BE STILL. 

Come, bring me wild pinks from the 
valleys, 

Ablaze with the fire o' the sun — 
No poor little pitiful lilies 

That speak of a life that is done ! 

And open the windows to lighten 
The wearisome chamber of pain — 

The eyes of my darling will brighten 
To see the green hill-tops again. 

Choose tunes with a lullaby flowing, 
And sing through the watches yoa 
keep 

Be soft with your coming and going — 
Be soft ! she is falling asleep. 



POEMS OF GRIEF AND CONSOLATION: 



^17 



Ah, what would my life be without her ! 

Pray God that I never may know ! 
Dear friends, as you gather about her, 

Be low with your weeping — be low. 

Be low, oh, be low with your weeping ! 

Your sobs would be sorrow to her ; 
I tremble lest while she is sleeping 

A rose on her pillow should stir. 

Sing slower, sing softer and slower ! 

Her sweet cheek is losing its red — 
Sing low, aye, sing lower and lower — 

Be still, oh, be still ! She is dead. 



VANISHED. 

Out of the wild and weary night 
I see the morning softly rise, 
But oh, my lovely, lovely eyes ! 

The world is dim without your light. 

I see the young buds break and start 
To fresher life when frosts are o'er. 
But oh, my rose-red mouth ! no more 

Will kiss of yours delight my heart. 

The worm that knows nor hope nor 
trust 
Comes forth with glorious wings dis- 

pread. 
But oh, my little golden head ! 
I see you only in the dust. 

I hear the calling of the lark, 

Despite the cloud, despite the rain ; 
But oh, my snow-white hands ! in 
vain 

I search to find you through the dark. 

When the strong whirlwind's rage is o'er, 
A whisper bids the land rejoice ; 
But oh, my gentle, gentle voice 

Your music gladdens me no more. 

But though no earthly joy dispel 

This gloom that fills my life with 

woe. 
My sweetest, and my best ! I know 

That you are still alive and well. 

Alive and well : oh, blissful thought ! 

In some sweet clime, I know not 
where ; 

I only know that you are there, 
^nd sickness, pain, and death are not. 



SAFE. 

Ah, she was not an angel to adore. 
She was not perfect — she was only 

this : 
A woman to be prattled to, to kiss, 
To praise with all sweet praises, and be- 
fore 
Whose face you never were ashamed 

to lay 
The affections of your pride away. 

I have kept Fancy traveling to and fro 
Full many an hout, to find what 

name were best. 
If there were any sweeter than the 

rest, 
That I might always call my darling so ; 
And this of woman seems to me the 

sweetest. 
The finest, the most gracious, the 

completest. 

The dust she wore about her I agree 
Was poor and sickly, even to make 

you sad, 
But this rough world we live in never 

had 
An ornament more excellent than she ; 
The earthly dress was all so frail that 

you 
Could see the beauteous spirit shining 

through. 

Not what she was, but what she was to 
me 

Is what I fain would tell — from her 
was drawn 

The softness of the eve, the light of 
dawn ; 
With her and for her I could only see 

What things were sweet and sensible 
and pure ; 

Now all is dull, slow guessing, noth- 
ing sure. 

My sorrow with this comfort yet is 

stilled — 
I do not dread to hear the winter 

stir 
His wHd winds up — I have no fear 

for her ; 
And all mv love could never hope to 

build 
A place so sweet beneath heaven's 

arch of blue. 
As she by death has been elected to. 



138 THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 

WAITING. THE GREAT QUESTION. 



Ah yes, I see the sunshine play, 
I hear the robin's cheerful call, 

But I am thinking of the day 
My darling left me — that is all. 

I do not grieve for her — ah no ! 

To her the way is clear, I trust; 
But for myself I grieve, so low. 

So weak, so in, and of the dust. 

And for my sadness I am sad — 
I would be gay if so I might. 

But she was all the joy I had — 

My life, my love, my heart's delight, 

We came together to the door 
Of our sweet home that is to be. 

And knowing, she went in before. 
To put on marriage robes for me. 

'T is weary work to wait so long. 

But true love knows not how to 
doubt ; 

God's wisdom fashions seeming wrong. 
That we may find right meanings out. 



INTIMATIONS. 

There is hovering about me 

A power so sweet, so sweet. 
That I know, despite my sorrow, 

We assuredly shall meet. 
I know, and thus the darkness 

In between us is defied, 
That death is but a shadow 

With the sunshine either side. 

The world is very weary. 

But I never cease to know 
That still there is a border-land 

Where spirits come and go ; 
For you send me intimations 

In the morning's gentle beams, 
And at night you come and meet me 

In the golden gate of dreams. 

I am desolate and dreary, 

But mortal pain and doubt 
Are blessings, and our part it is 

To find their meanings out : 
To find their blessed meanings, 

And to wait in hope and trust. 
Til] our gracious Lord and Master 

Shall redeem us from the dust. 



" How are the dead raised up, and with whal 
body do they come ? " 

The waves, they are wildly heaving, 

And bearing me out from the shore, 
And I know of the things I am leaving, 

But not of the things before. 
O Lord of love, whom the shape of a 
dove 

Came down and hovered o'er, 
Descend to-night with heavenly light, 

And show me the farther shore. 

There is midnight darkness o'er me, 

And 't is light, more light, I crave ; 
The billows behind and before me 

Are gaping, each with a grave : 
Descend to-night, O Lord of might. 

Who died our souls to save ; 
Descend to-night, my Lord, my Light, 

&.nd walk with me on the wave ! 

My heart is heavy to breaking 

Because of the mourners' sighs, 
For they cannot see the awaking. 

Nor the body with which we arise. 
Thou, who for sake of men didst break 

The awful seal of the tomb — 
Show them the way into life, I pray. 

And the body with which we come 1 

Comfort their pain and pining 

For the nearly wasted sands. 
With the many mansions shining 

In the house not made with hands : 
And help them by faith to see through 
death 

To that brighter and better shore. 
Where they never shall weep who are 
fallen asleep 

And never be sick any more. 



What comfort, when with clouds of 
woe 
The heart is burdened, and must 
weep. 
To feel that pain must end, — to know, 
" He giveth His beloved sleep." 

When in the mid-day march we meet 
The outstretched shadows of the 
night, 

The promise, how divinely sweet, 
" At even-time it shall be light." 



RELIGIOUS POEMS AND HYMNS, 



THANKSGIVING. 

For the sharp conflicts I have had with 
sin, 
Wherein, 
I have been wedged and pressed 
Nigh unto death, I thanli thee, with the 

rest 
Of my befallings, Lord, of brighter guise, 

And named by mortals, good. 
Which to my hungry heart have given 
food. 
Or costly entertainment to my eyes. 

For I can only see. 
With spirit truly reconciled to thee. 
In the sad evils with our lives that 
blend, 

A means, and not an end : 

Since thou wert free 
To do thy will — knewest the bitter 

worth 
Of sin, and all its possibility. 

Ere that, by thy decree. 
The ancient silence of eternity 
Was broken by the music of man's birth. 

Therefore I lay my brows 
Discrowned of youth, within thy gra- 
cious hands, 
Or rise while daybreak dew is on the 

boughs 
To strew thy road with sweets, for thy 

commands 
Do make the current of my life to run 
Through lost and cavernous ways, 
Bordered with cloudy days, 
In its slow working out into the sun. 

Hills, clap your hands, and all ye mount- 
ains, shout : 

Hie, fainting hart, to where the waters 
flow ; 



Children of men, put off your fear and 

doubt ; 
The Lord who chasteneth, loveth you, 

for, lo ! 
The wild herb's wounded stalk He cares 

about. 
And shields the ravens when the rough 

winds blow ; 
He sendeth down the drop of shining 

dew 
To light the daisy from her house 

of death. 
And shall He, then, forget the like of you, 
O ye, of little faith ! 

He speaketh to the willing soul and 
heart 
By dreams, and in the visions of the 
night. 
And happy is the man who, for his part, 

Rejoiceth in the light 
Of all his revelations, whether found 
In the old books, so sacredly upbound. 
And clasped with golden clasps, or 
whether writ 
Through later instillations of his 
power. 
Where he that runneth still perceivethit 
Illuminating every humble flower 
That springeth from the ground. 

His testimony all the time is sure ; 
The smallest star that keepeth in the 

night 
His silver candle bright, 
And every deed of good that anywhere 
Maketh the hands of holy women white ; 
All sweet religious work, all earnest 

prayer, 
Of uttered, or unutterable speech ; 
Whatever things are peaceable and pure. 

Whatever things are right. 
These are his witnesses, aye, all and 

eachl 



140 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



Thrice happy is the man who doth obey 
The Lord of love, through love ; who 

fears to break 
The righteous law for th' law's right- 
eous sake ; 
And who, by daily use of blessings, gives 
Thanks for the daily blessings he re- 
ceives ; 
His spirit grown so reverent, it dares 
Cast the poor shows of reverence away, 

Believing they 
More glorify the Giver, who partake 
Of his good gifts, than they who fast and 

make 
Burnt offerings and Pharisaic prayers. 

The wintry snows that blind 

The air, and blight what things were 
glorified 

By summer's reign, we do not think un- 
kind 

When that we see them changed, afar 
and wide, 

To rain, that, fretting in the rose's face, 
Brings out a softer grace, 

And makes the troops of rustic daffodils 

Shake out their yellow skirts along the 
hills, 

And all the valleys blush from side to 
side. 

And as we climb the stair. 
Of rough and ugly fortune, by the props 
Of faith and charity, and hope and 

prayer, 
To the serene and beauteous mountain- 
tops 
Of our best human possibility, 
Where haunts the spirit of eternity. 
The world below looks fair, — 
Its seeming inequalities subdued. 
And level, all, to purposes of good. 

I thank thee, gracious Lord, 
For the divine award 
Of strength that helps me up the heavy 

heights 
Of mortal sorrow, where, through tears 

forlorn. 
My eyes get glimpses of the authentic 
lights 
Of love's eternal morn. 

For thereby do I trust 
That our afflictions spring not from the 
dust. 
And that they are not sent 
In arbitrary chastisement, 



Nor as avengers to put out the light 
And let our souls loose in some damned 

night 
That holds the balance of thy glory, 

just ; 
But rather, that as lessons they are 

meant, 
And as the fire tempers the iron, so 
Are we refined by woe. 

I thank thee for my common blessingSy 
still 
Rained through thy will 
Upon my head ; the air 

That knows so many tunes which griei 
beguile. 

Breathing its light love to me every- 
where. 

And that will still be kissing all the 
while, 

I thank thee that my childhood's van- 
ished days 
Were cast in rural ways, 

Where I beheld, with gladness ever 
new, 
That sort of vagrant dew 

Which lodges in the beggarly tents of 
such 

Vile weeds as virtuous plants disdain \.7 
touch, 

And with rough-bearded burs, night 
after night, 

Upgathered by the morning, tender and 
true. 
Into her clear, chaste light. 

Such ways I learned to know 

That free will cannot go 
Outside of mercy ; learned to bless his 

name 
Whose revelations, ever thus renewed 
Along the varied year, in field and wood, 

His loving care proclaim. 

I thank thee that the grass and the red 

rose 
Do what they can to tell 
How spirit through all forms of matter 

flows ; 
For every thistle by the common way 
Wearing its homely beauty, — for each 

spring 
That sweet and homeless, runneth where 

it will, — 
For night and day. 
For the alternate seasons, — everything 
Pertaining to life's marvelous miracle. 



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141 



Even for the lowly flower 
That, living, dwarfed and bent 
Under some beetling rock, in gloom 

profound, 
Far from her pretty sisters of the ground, 

And shut from sun and shower, 
Seemeth endowed with human discon- 
tent. 

Ah ! what a tender hold 

She taketh of us in our own despite, — 
A sadly-solemn creature, 
Crooked, despoiled of nature. 

Leaning from out the shadows, dull and 
cold. 

To lay her little white face in the light. 

The chopper going by her rude abode. 
Thinks of his own rough hut, his old 
wife's smile, 
And of the bare young feet 
That run through th' frost to meet 
His coming, and forgets the weary 

load 
Of sticks that bends his shoulders down 
the while. 

I thank thee. Lord, that Nature is so 

wise. 
So capable of painting in men's eyes 
Pictures whose airy hues 
Do blend and interfuse 
With all the darkness that about us 
lies, — 
That clearly in our hearts 
Her law she writes. 
Reserving cunning past our mortal 

arts. 
Whereby she is avenged for all her 
slights. 

And I would make thanksgiving 
For the sweet, double living. 
That gives the pleasures that have 

passed away, 
The sweetness and the sunshine of to- 
day. 

I see the furrows ploughed and see 
them planted. 
See the young cornstalks rising green 
and fair ; 

Mute things are friendly, and I am ac- 
quainted 
With all the luminous creatures of 
the air ; 

A.nd with the cunning workers of the 
ground 



That have their trades born with 
them, and with all 
The insects, large and small. 
That fill the summer with a wave of 
sound. 
I watch the wood-bird line 
Her pretty nest, with eyes that never 

tire. 
And watch the sunbeams trail their 
wisps of fire 
Along the bloomless bushes, till they 
shine. 

The violet, gathering up her tender blue 
From th' dull ground, is a good sight 
to see ; 
And it delighteth me 
To have the mushroom push his round 
head through 
The dry and brittle stubble, as I pass, 
His smooth and shining coat, half rose 
half fawn. 
But just put on ; 
And to have April slip her showery 
grass 
Under my feet, as she was used to do, 
In the dear spring-times gone. 

I make the brook, my Nile, 
And hour by hour beguile, 
Tracking its devious course 
Through briery banks to its mysterious 
source. 
That I discover, always, at my will, — 

A little silver star, 
Under the shaggy forehead of some 
hill. 
From traveled ways afar. 

Forgetting wind and flood, 
I build my house of unsubstantial sand, 
Shaping the roof upon my double hand. 
And setting up the dry and sliding grains, 
With infinite pains. 
In the similitude 
Of beam and rafter, •* — then 
Where to the ground the dock its broad 
leaf crooks, 
I hunt long whiles to find the little 
men 
That I have read of in my story-books. 

Often, in lawless wise, 
Some obvious work of duty I delay, 

Taking my fill 

Of an uneasy liberty, and still 

Close shutting up my eyes. 
As though it were not given me to see 



142 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



The avenging ghost of opportunity 
Thus slighted, far away. 

I linger, when I know 
That I should forward go ; 
Now, haply for the katydid's wild shrill, 

Now listening to the low, 
Dull noise of mill-wheels — counting, 
now, the row 
Of clouds about the shoulder of the 
hill. 

My heart anew rejoices 
In th' old familiar voices 
That come back to me like a lullaby ; 

Now 't is the church-bell's call, 
And now a teamster's whistle, — now, 
perhaps, 
The silvery lapse 
Of waters in among the reeds that meet ; 
And now, down-dropping to a whis- 
pery fall, 
Some milkmaid, chiding with love's 
privilege, 
Through the green wall 
Of the dividing hedge. 
And the so sadly eloquent reply 

Of the belated cow-boy, low and sweet. 

I see, as in a dream. 
The farmer plodding home behind 
his team. 
With all the tired shadows following. 
And see him standing in his threshing- 
floor, 
The hungry cattle gathered in a ring 
About the great barn-door. 

I see him in the sowing, 
And see him in the mowing, 
The air about him thick with gray- 
winged moths ; 
The day's work nearly over. 
And the long meadow ridged with 
double swaths 
Of sunset-light and clover. 

When falls the time of solemn Sabbath 

rest, 
In all he has of best 
I see him going (for he never fails) 
To church, in either equitable hand 
A shining little one, and all his band 
Trooping about him like a flock of 

quails. 
With necks bowed low, and hid to half 

their length 
Under the jutting load of new-made hay, 



I see the oxen give their liberal strength 
Day after day. 
And see the mower stay 
His scythe, and leave a patch of gras* 
to spread 
Its shelter round the bed 
Of the poor frighted ground-bird in his 
way. 

I see the joyous vine, 
And see the wheat set up its rustling 

spears, 
And see the sun with golden fingers 
sign 
The promise of full ears. 

I see the slender moon 
Time after time grow old and round in 

th' face, 
And see the autumn take the summer's 
place, 
And shake the ripe nuts down. 
In their thick, bitter hulls of green and 

brown. 
To make the periods of the school-boy's 

tune ; 
I see the apples, with their russet cheeks 

Shaming the wealth of June ; 
And see the bean-pods, gay with pur- 
ple freaks, 
And all the hills with yellow leaves o'er- 

blown. 
As through the fading woods I walk 
alone, 
And hear the wind o'erhead 
Touching the joyless boughs and mak- 
ing moan. 
Like some old crone, 
Who on her withered fingers counts her 
dead. 

I hear the beetle's hum, and see the 

gnats 
Sagging along the air in strings of jet, 
And from their stubs I see the weak- 
eyed bats 
Flying an hour before the sun is set. 

Picture on picture crowds. 
And bv the gray and priestlike silence 

led, 
Comes the first star through evening's 
steely gates 
And chides the day to bed 
Within the ruddy curtains of the clouds; 
So gently com'st thou. Death, 
To him who waits. 
In the assurance of our blessed faith, 
To be acquainted with thy quiet arms» 



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143 



His good deeds, great and small, 
Builded about him like a silver wall. 
And bearing back the deluge of alarms. 

The mother doth not tenderer appear 
When, from her heart her tired darling 

laid, 
She trims his cradle all about with shade, 
And will not kiss his sleepy eyes for 

fear. 

I see the windows of the homestead 
bright 
With the warm evening light. 
And by the winter fire 
I see the gray-haired sire 
Serenely sitting. 
Forgetful of the work-day toil and 

care. 
The old wife by his elbow, at her knit- 
ting ; 
The cricket on the hearth-stone singing 

shrill. 
And the spoiled darling of the house at 
will 
Climbing the good man's chair, 
A furtive glimpse to catch 
Of her fair face in his round silver watch. 
That she in her high privilege must 
wear. 
And listen to the music that is in it, 
Though only for a minute. 

I thank thee, Lord, for every saddest 
cross ; 
Gain comes to us through loss, 
The while we go. 
Blind travelers holding by the wall of 
time. 
And seeking out through woe 
The things that are eternal and sublime. 

Ah ! sad are they of whom no poet 
writes 

Nor ever any story-teller hears, — 

The childless mothers, who on lone- 
some nights 

Sit by their fires and weep, having the 
chores 

Done for the day, and time enough to 
see 
All the wide floors 

Swept clean of playthings ; they, as 
needs must be, 
Have time enough for tears. 

But there are griefs more sad 

Than ever any childless mother had, — 



You know them, who do smother Nat- 
ure's cries 
Under poor masks 
Of smiling, slow despair, — 

Who put your white and unadorning 
hair 

Out of your way, and keep at homely 
tasks, 

Unblest with any praises of men's eyes, 

Till Death comes to you with his pit- 
eous care. 

And to unmarriageable 'beds you go, 

Saying, " It is not much ; 't is well, if 
so 
We only be made fair 

And looks of love await us when we 
rise." 

My cross is not as hard as theirs to 
bear, 

And yet alike to me are storms, or 
calms ; 
My life's young joy, 
The brown-cheeked farmer-boy. 

Who led the daisies with him like his 
lambs, — 

Carved his sweet picture on my milk- 
ing-pail. 

And cut my name upon his threshing- 
flail, 

One day stopped singing at his plough ; 
alas ! 

Before that summer-time was gone, the 
grass 

Had choked the path which to the sheep- 
field led, 

Where I had watched him tread 
So oft on evening's trail, — 

A shining oat-sheaf balanced on hit 
head. 
And nodding to the gale. 

Rough wintry weather came, and when 
it sped. 
The emerald wave 
Swelling above my little sweetheart's 

grave. 
With such bright, bubbly flowers was 
set about, 
I thought he blew them out, 
And so took comfort that he was not 
dead. 

For I was of a rude and ignorant crew. 
And hence believed whatever things I 

saw 
Were the expression of a hidden law ; 
And, with a wisdom wiser than I knew, 



144 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



Evoked the simple meanings out 

of things 
By childlike questionings. 

And he they named with shudderings 

of fear 
Had never, in his life, been half so 

near 
As when I sat all day with cheeks un- 

kissed, 
And listened to the whisper, very low, 
That said our love above death's wave 

of woe 
Was joined together like the seamless 

mist. 

God's yea and nay 
Are not so far away, 
I said, but I can hear them when I 
please ; 
Nor could I understand 
Their doubting faith, who only touch his 

hand 
Across the blind, bewildering centuries. 

And often yet, upon the shining track 
Of the old faith, come back 

My childish fancies, never quite sub- 
dued ; 

And when the sunset shuts up in the 
wood 

The whispery sweetness of uncertainty, 

And Night, with misty locks that loosely 
drop 

About his ears, brings rest, a welcome 
boon, 

Playing his pipe with many a starry 
stop 

That makes a golden snarling in his 
tune ; 

I see my little lad 
Under the leafy shelter of the boughs. 
Driving his noiseless, visionary cows, 
Clad in a beauty I alone can see : 

Laugh, you, who never had 
Your dead come back, but do not take 

from me 
The harmless comfort of my foolish 
dream. 
That these, our mortal eyes. 
Which outwardly reflect the earth and 
skies 
Do introvert upon eternity : 

And that the shapes you deem 
Imaginations, just as clearly fall ; 
Each from its own divine original, 



And through some subtle element of 

light, 
Upon the inward, spiritual eye. 
As do the things which round about 

them lie. 
Gross and material, on the external 

sight. 



Hope in our hearts doth only stay 

Like a traveler at an inn, 
Who riseth up at the break of day 

His journey to begin. 

Faith, when her soul has known the 
blight 

Of noisy doubts and fears, 
Goes thenceforward clad in the light 

Of the still eternal years. 

Truth is truth : no more in the prayers 

Of the righteous Pharisee ; 
No less in the humblest sinner that wears 

This poor mortality. 

But Love is greatest of all : no loss 
Can shadow its face with gloom, — 

As glorious hanging on the cross 
As breaking out of the tomb. 



MORNING. 

Wake, Dillie, my darling, and kiss me, 

The daybreak is nigh, — 
I can see, through the half-open curtain, 

A strip of blue sky. 

Yon lake, in her valley-bed lying, 

Looks fair as a bride, 
And pushes, to greet the sun's coming, 

The mist sheets aside. 

The birds, to the wood-temple flying, 

Their matins to chant. 
Are chirping their love to each other, 

With wings dropt aslant. 

Not a tree, that the morning's bright 
edges 

With silver illumes, 
But trembles and stirs with its pleasuT3 

Through all its green plumes. 

Wake, Dillie, and Join in the praises 
All nature doth give ; 



RELIGIOUS POEMS AND HYMNS. 



145 



Clap hands, and rejoice in the good- 
ness 
That leaves you to live. 

For what is the world in her glory 

To that which thou art ? 
Thank God for the soul that is in you, — 

Thank God for your heart ! 

The world that had never a lover 

Her bright face to kiss, — 
With her splendors of stars and of noon- 
tides 

How poor is her bliss ! 

Wake, Dillie, — the white vest of morn- 
ing 
With crimson is laced ; 
And why should delights of God's 
giving 
Be running to waste ! 

Full measures, pressed down, are await- 
ing 

Our provident use ; 
And is there no sin in neglecting 

As well as abuse ? 

The cornstalk exults in its tassel, 

The flint in its spark, — 
And shall the seed planted within me 

Rot out in the dark ? 

Shall I be ashamed to give culture 

To what God has sown ? 
When nature asks bread, shall I offer 

A serpent, or stone ? 

For could I out-weary its yearnings 

By fasting, or pain, — 
Would life have a better fulfillment, 

Or death have a gain ? 

Nay, God will not leave us unanswered 

In any true need ; 
His will maybe writ in an instinct. 

As well as a creed. 

And, Dillie, my darling, believe me. 

That life is the.best, 
That, loving here, truly and sweetly. 

With Him leaves the rest. 

Its head to the sweep of the whirlwind 

The wise willow suits, — 
While the oak, that 's too stubborn for 
bending. 

Comes up by the roots. 



Such lessons, each day, round about us, 
Our good Mother writes, — 

To show us that Nature, in some way, 
Avenges her slisrhts. 



ONE DUST. 

Thou, under Satan's fierce control. 
Shall Heaven its final rest bestow } 

I know not, but I kniow a soul 

That might have fallen as darkly 
low. 

I judge thee not, what depths of ill 
Soe'er thy feet have found, or trod ; 

I know a spirit and a will 

As weak, but for the grace of God. 

Shalt thou with full-day laborers stand, 
Who hardly canst have pruned one 
vine ? 

I know not, but I know a hand 
With an infirmity like thine. 

Shalt thou who hast with scoffers part. 
E'er wear the crown the Christian 
wears ? 

I know not, but I know a heart 
As flinty, but for tears and prayers. 

Have mercy, O thou Crucified ! 

For even while I name thy name, 
I know a tongue that might have lied 

Like Peter's, and am bowed with 
shame. 

Fighters of good fights, — just, unjust, — 
The weak who faint, the frail who 
fall, — 
Of one blood, of the self-same dust. 
Thou, God of love, hast made thera 
all. 



SIGNS OF GRACE. 

Come thou, my heavy soul, and lay 

Thy sorrows all aside. 
And let us see, if so we may, 

How God is glorified. 

Forget the storms that darkly beat. 
Forget the woe and crime. 

And tie of consolations sweet 
A posie for the time. 



146 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



Some blessed token everywhere 

Doth grace to men allow ; 
The daisy sets her silver share 

Beside the rustic's plough. 

The wintry wind that naked strips 

The bushes, stoopeth low, 
And round their rugged arms en- 
wraps 

The fleeces of the snow. 

The blackbird, idly whistling till 

The storm begins to pour, 
Finds ever with his golden bill 

A hospitable door. 

From love, and love's protecting power 

We cannot go apart ; 
The shadows round the fainting flower 

Rebuke the drooping heart. 

Our strivings are not reckoned less, 

Although we fail to win ; 
The lily wears a royal dress, 

And yet she doth not spin. 

So, soul, forget thy evil days, 

Thy sorrow lay aside, 
And strive to see in all his ways 

How God is glorified. 



JANUARY. 

The year has lost its leaves again. 
The world looks old and grim ; 

God folds his robe of glory thus, 
That we may see but Him. 

And all his stormy messengers. 
That come with whirlwind breath, 

Beat out our chaff of vanity, 
And leave the grains of faith. 

We will not feel, while summer waits 

Her rich delights to share. 
What sinners, miserably bad, — 

How weak and poor we are. 

We tread through fields of speckled 
flowers 

As if we did not know 
Our Father made them beautiful. 

Because He loves us so. 

We hold his splendors in our hands 
As if we held the dust. 



And deal his judgment, as if man 
Than God could be more just. 

We seek, in prayers and penances, 

To do the martyr's part. 
Remembering not, the promises 

Are to the pure in heart. 

From evil and forbidden things, 
Some good we think to win, 

And to the last analysis 
Experiment with sin. 

We seek no oil in summer time 

Our winter lamp to trim. 
But strive to bring God down to us, 

More than to rise to Him. 

And when that He is nearest, most 
Our weak complaints we raise, 

Lacking the wisdom to perceive 
The mystery of his ways. 

For, when drawn closest to himself, 
Then least his love we mark ; 

The very wings that shelter us 
From peril, make it dark. 

Sometimes He takes his hands from 
us. 

When storms the loudest blow, 
That we may learn how weak, alone, — • 

How strong in Him, we grow. 

Through the cross iron of our free 
will 

And fate, we plead for light. 
As if God gave us not enough 

To do our work aright. 

We will not see, but madly take 
The wrong and crooked path, 

And in our own hearts light the fires 
Of a consuming wrath. 

The fashion of his Providence 

Our way is so above, 
We serve Him most who take the 
most 

Of his exhaustless Igve. 

We serve Him in the good we do, 

The blessings we embrace, 
Not lighting farthing candles for 

The palace of his grace. 

He has no need of our poor aid 
His purpose to pursue ; 



RELIGIOUS POEMS AND HYMNS. 



147 



T is for our pleasure, not for his, 
That we his work must do. 

Then blow, O wild winds, as ye list, 
And let the world look grim, — 

God folds his robe of glory thus 
That we may see but Him. 



ALONE. 



What shall I do when I stand in my I want to know if in the night 



Of all its vain pretense, — to see 
Myself, as I am seen by thee. 

I want to know how much the pain 

And passion here, its powers abate ; 
To take its thoughts, a tangled skein. 
And stretch them out all smooth and 
straight ; 
To track its wavering course through 

sin 
And sorrow, to its origin. 



place, 
Unclothed of this garment of cloud 

and dust, 
Unclothed of this garment of selfish 
lust, 
With my Maker, face vO face ? 

What shall I say for my worldly pride ? 
What for the things I have done and 

not done ? 
There will be no cloud then over the 
sun. 
And no grave wherein to hide. 

No time for waiting, no time for 
prayer, — 
No friend that with me my life-path 

trod 
To help me, — only my soul and my 
God, 
And all my sins laid bare. 

No dear human pity, no low loving 
speech. 
About me that terrible day shall there 

be, 
Remitted back into myself, I shall see 
All sweetest things out of reach. 

Put why should I tremble before th' 
unknown. 
And put off the blushing and shame ? 

Now, — to-day ! 
The friend close beside me seems far, 
far away, 
And I stand at God's judgment alone ! 



\ Of evil grace doth so abound. 
That from its darkness we draw light, 
As flowers do beauty from the 
ground ; 
Or, if the sins of time shall be 
The shadows of eternity. 

I want, though only for an hour, 
To be myself, — to get more near 

The wondrous mystery and power 
Of love, whose echoes floating here, 

Between us and the waiting grave, 

Make all of light, of heaven, we have. 



A PRAYER. 

I HAVE been little used to frame 
Wishes to speech and call it prayer ; 

To-day, my Father, in thy name, 
I ask to have my soul stript bare 



COUNSEL. 

Though sin hath marked thy brother's 
brow, 

Love him in sin's despite. 
But for his darkness, haply thou 

Hadst never known the light. 

Be thou an angel to his life. 

And not a demon grim, — 
Since with himself he is at strife, 

Oh be at peace with him. 

Speak gently of his evil ways 

And all his pleas allow. 
For since he knows not why he strays 

From virtue, how shouldst thou .'' 

Love him, though all thy love he 
slights, 

For ail, thou canst not say 
But that his prayerlcss days and nights 

Have taught thee how to pray. 

Outside themselves all thing have law^ 

The atom and the sun, — 
Thou art thyself, perhaps, the cause 

Of sins which he has done. 



148 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



If guiltless thou, why surely then 
Thy place is by his side, — 

It was for sinners, not just men, 
That Christ the Saviour died. 



SUPPLICATION. 

Dear gracious Lord, if that thy pain 
Doth make me well, if I have strayed 
Past mercy, let my hands be laid 

One in the other ; not in vain 

Would I be dressed, Lord, in the 

beauteous clay 
Which thou didst put away. 

But if thou yet canst find in me 

A vine, though trailing on the ground. 
That might be straightened up, and 
bound 
To any good, so let it be ; 

And, haply at the last, some tendril- 
ring 
Unto thy hand shall cling. 

I have been too much used, I know, 

To tell my needs in fretful words. 

The clamoring of the silly birds. 
Impatient for their wings to grow. 

Has thy forgiveness ; O my blessed 
Lord, 

The like to me accord. 

Of grace, as much as will complete 

Thy will in me, I pray thee for ; 

Even as a rose shut in a drawer, 
That maketh all about it sweet, 

I would be, rather than the cedar, 
fine. 

Help me, thou Power divine. 

Fill thou my heart with love as full 

As any lily with the rain ; 

Unteach me ever to complain, 
And make my scarlet sins as wool ; 

Yea, wash me, even with sorrows, 
clean and fair. 

As lightnings do the air. 



PUTTING OFF THE ARMOR. 

Why weep ye for the falling 
Of the transient twilight gloom ? 



I am weary of the journey. 

And have come in sight of home. 

I can see a white procession 

Sweep melodiously along. 
And I would not have your mourning 

Drown the sweetness of their song. 

The battle-strife is ended ; 

I have scaled the hindering wall, 
And am putting off the armor 

Of the soldier — that is all ! 

Would you hide me from my pleas 
ures ? 

Would you hold me from my rest ? 
From my serving and my waiting 

I am called to be a guest ! 

Of its heavy, hurtful burdens 

Now my spirit is released : 
I am done with fasts and scourges, 

And am bidden to the feast. 

While you see the sun descending, 
While you lose me in the night, 

Lo, the heavenly morn is breaking, 
And my soul is in the light. 

I from faith to sight am rising 

While in deeps of doubt you sink; 

'T is the glory that divides us, 
Not the darkness, as you think. 

Then lift up your drooping eyelids, 
And take heart of better cheer; 

'T is the cloud of coming spirits 
Makes the shadows that ye fear. 

Oh, they come to bear me upward 

To the mansion of the sky. 
And to change as I am changing 

Is to live, and not to die ; 

Is to leave the pain, the sickness. 

And the smiting of the rod. 
And to dwell among the angels, 

In the City of our God. 



FORGIVENESS. 

O THOU who dost the sinner meet^ 
Fearing his garment's hem, 

Think of the Master, and repeat, 
" Neither do I condemn 1 " 



RELIGIOUS POEMS AND HYMNS. 



149 



And while the eager rabble stay, 
Their storms of wrath to pour, 

Think of the Master still, and say, 
" Go thou, and sin no more ! " 



THE GOLDEN MEAN. 

Lest to evil ways I run 

When I go abroad, 
Shine about me, like the sun, 

O my gracious Lord ! 
Make the clouds, with silver glowing. 
Like a mist of lilies blowing 

O'er the summer sward ; 
And mine eyes keep thou from being 
Ever satisfied with seeing, 

O my light, my Lord ! 

Lest my thoughts on discontent 

Should in sleep be fed, 
Make the darkness like a tent 

Round about my bed : 
Sweet as honey to the taster. 
Make my dreams be, O my Master, 
Sweet as honey, ere it loses 

Spice of meadow-blooms, 
While the taster tastes the roses 

In the golden combs. 

Lest I live in lowly ease, 

Or in loftly scorn, 
Make me like the strawberries 

That run among the corn ; 
Grateful in the shadows keeping, 
Of the broad leaves o'er me sweep- 
ing ; 
In the gold crop's stead, to render 
Some small berries, red and tender, 

Like the blushing morn. 

Lest that pain to pain be placed — 

Weary day to day, 
Let me sit at good men's feasts 

When the house is gay : 
Let my heart beat up to measures 
Of all comfortable pleasures. 

Till the morning gray, 
O'er the eastern hill-tops glancing, 
Sets the woodlands all to dancing, 

And scares night away. 

Lest that I in vain pretense 

Careless live and move, 
Heart and mind, and soul and senses 

Quicken thou with love ! 
Fold its music over, under. 



Breath of f^ute and boom of thunder, 
Nor make satisfied my hearing 
As I go on, nearing, nearing 
Him whose name is Love, 



THE FIRE BY THE SEA. 

There were seven fishers, with nets in 

their hands, 
And they walked and talked by the 
sea-side sands ; 
Yet sweet as the sweet dew-fall 
The words they spake, though they 

spake so low. 
Across the long, dim centuries, flow, 
And we know them, one and all — 
Aye ! know them and love them all. 

Seven sad men in the days of old. 
And one was gentle, and one was bold, 
And they walked with downward 
eyes ; 
The bold was Peter, the gentle was 

John, 
And they all were sad, for the Lord 
was gone. 
And they knew not if He would rise — 
Knew not if the dead would rise. 

The livelong night, till the moon went 

out 
In the drowning waters, they beat about ; 
Beat slow through the fog their way j 
And the sails drooped down with wring- 
ing wet. 
And no man drew but an empty net, 
And now 't was the break of the day -^ 
The great, glad break of the day. 

"Cast in your nets on the other side ! " 
('T was Jesus speaking across the tide ;) 
And they cast and were dragging 
hard ; 
But that disciple whom Jesus loved 
Cried straightway out, for his heart was 
moved : 
" Itis our risen Lord — 
Ou^Master, and our Lord ! " 

Then Simon, girding his fisher's coat, 
Went over the nets and out of the boat — 

Aye ! first of them all was he ; 
Repenting sore the denial past, 
He feared no longer his heart to cast 
Like an anchor into the sea — 
Down deep in the hungry sea. 



I50 



POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



And the others, through the mists so 

dim, 
In a little ship came after him, 

Dragging their net through the tide ; 
And when they had gotten close to the 

land 
They saw a fire of coals on the sand. 
And, with arms of love so wide, 
Jesus, the crucified ! 

'T is long, and long, and long ago 
Since the rosy lights began to flow 

O'er the hills of Galilee ; 
And with eager eyes and lifted hands 
The seven fishers saw on the sands 
The fire of coals by the sea — 
On the wet, wild sands by the sea. 

'T is long ago, yet faith in our souls 
Is kindled just by that fire of coals 
That streamed o'er the mists of the 
sea ; 
Where Peter, girding his fisher's coat, 
Went over the nets and out of the 
boat. 
To answer, " Lov'st thou me ? " 
Thrice over, " Lov'st thou me ? " 



THE SURE WITNESS. 

The solemn wood had spread 
Shadows around my head ; 
" Curtains they are," I said, 
" Hung dim and still about the house of 
prayer." 
Softly among the limbs, 
Turning the leaves of hymns, 
I heard the winds, and asked if God 

were there. 
No voice replied, but while I listening 

stood. 
Sweet peace made holy hushes through 
the wood. 

With ruddy, open hand, 
I saw the wild rose stand 
Beside the green gate of the summer 
hills ; •■•'' 

And pulling at her dress, 
I cried, " Sweet hermitess. 
Hast thou beheld Him who the dew 

distills ?" 
No voice replied, but while I listening 

bent, 
Her gracious beauty made my heart 
content. 



The moon in splendor shone ; 
" She walketh heaven alone, 
And seeth all things," to mvself I mused; 
" Hast thou beheld Him, then, 
Who hides Himself from men 
In that great power through nature in- 
terfused ? " 
No speech made answer, and no sign 

appeared, 
But in the silence I was soothed and 
cheered. 

Waking one time, strange awe 
Thrilling my soul, I saw 
A hingly splendor round about the 
night ; 
Such cunning work the hand 
Of spinner never planned, — 
The finest wool may not be washed so 

white. 
"Hast thou come out of heaven.''" I 

asked ; and lo ! 
The snow was all the answer of the 
snow. 

Then my heart said, " Give o'er ; 
Question no more, no more ! 
The wind, the snow-storm, the wild 
hermit flower. 
The illuminated air, 
The pleasure after prayer, 
Proclaim the unoriginated Power ! 
The mystery that hides Him here and 

there, 
Bears the sure witness He is every< 
where." 



A PENITENT'S PLEA. 

Like a child that is lost 

From its home in the night, 
I grope through the darkness 

And cry for the light ; 
Yea, all that is in me 

Cries out for the day — 
Come Jesus, my Master, 

Illumine my way ! 

In the conflicts that pass 

'Twixt my soul and my God, 
I walk as one walketh 

A fire-path, unshod ; 
And in my despairing 

Sit dumb by the way — 
Come Jesus, my Master, 

And heal me, I pray ! 




'O Thou, who nil mv life hast crowned " See p. tsi. 



RELIGIOUS POEMS AND HYMNS. 



ISI 



I know the fierce flames 

Will not cease to uproll, 
Till thou rainest the dew 

Of thy love on my soul ; 
And I know the dumb spirit 

Will never depart, 
Till thou comest and makest 

Thy house in my heart. 

My thoughts lie within me 

As waste as the sands ; 
Oh make them be musical 

Strings in thy hands ! 
My sins, red as scarlet, 

Wash white as a fleece — 
Come Jesus, my Master, 

And give me thy peace ! 



LOVE IS LIFE. 

Our days are few and full of strife ; 

Like leaves our pleasures fade and 
fall; 

But Thou who art the all in all, 
Thy name is Love, and love is Life ! 

We walk in sleep and think we see ; 

Our little lives are clothed with 
dreams ; 

For that to us which substance seems 
Is shadow, 'twixt ourselves and thee. 

We are immortal now, and here, 

Chances and changes, night and day, 
Are landmarks in the eternal way ; 

Our fear is all we have to fear. 

Our lives are dew-drops in thy sun ; 
Thou breakest them, and lo ! we see 
A thousand gracious shapes of thee, — 

A thousand shapes, instead of one. 

The soul that drifts all darkly dim 
Through floods that seem outside of 

grace. 
Is only surging toward the place 
Which thou hast made and meant for 
him. 

For this we hold, — ill could not be 
Were there no power beyond the ill ; 
Our wills are held within thy will ; 

The ends of goodness rest with thee. 

Fall storms of winter as you may. 
The dry boughs in the warm spring rain 



Shall put their green leaves forth again, 
And surely we are more than they. 



Thy works, O Lord, interpret thee, 
And through them all thy love is 
shown ; 

Flowing about usjike a sea, 

Yet steadfast as the eternal throne. 

Out of the light that runneth through 
Thy hand, the lily's dress is spun ; 

Thine is the brightness of the dew, 
And thine the glory of the sun. 



Our God is love, and that which we 
miscall 
Evil, in this good world that He has 

made. 
Is meant to be a little tender shade 
Between us and his glory, — that is all ; 
And he who loves the best his fellow- 
man 
Is loving God, the holiest way he can. 



TIME. 



What is time, O glorious Giver, 
With its restlessness and might, 

But a lost and wandering river 
Working back into the light .'' 

Every gloomy rock that troubles 
Its smooth passage, strikes to life 

Beautiful and joyous bubbles 

That are only born through strife. 

Overhung with mist-like shadows, 
Stretch its shores away, away. 

To the long, delightful meadows 
Shining with immortal May : 

Where its moaning reaches never. 
Passion, pain, or fear to move. 

And the changes bring us ever 
Sabbaths and new moons of love. 



SUPPLICATION. 

O Thou, who all my life hast crowned 
With better things than I could ask, 



152 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



Be it to-day my humble task 
To own from depths of grief profound, 
The many sins, which dari^en through 
What Httle good I do. 

I have been too much used, I own. 

To tell my needs in fretful words ; 

The clamoring of the silly birds, 
Impatient till their wings be grown. 

Have thy forgiveness. O my blessed 
Lord, 

The like to me accord. 

Of grace, as much as will complete 

Thy will in me, I pray thee for ; 

Even as a rose shut in a drawer 
That maketh all about it sweet, 

I would be, rather than the cedar 
fine : 

Help me, thou Power divine. 

With charity fill thou my heart, 

As summer fills the grass with dews, 
And as th' year itself renews 

In th' sun, when winter days depart, 
Blessed forever, grant thou me 
To be renewed in thee. 



WHITHER. 

All the time my soul is calling, 
" Whither, whither do I go .-' " 

For my days like leaves are falling 
From my tree of life below. 

Who will come and be my lover ! 

Who is strong enough to save, 
When that I am leaning over 

The dark silence of the grave .' 

Wherefore should my soul be calling, 
'■ Whither, whither do I go .-' " 

For my days like leaves are falling 
In the hand of God, I know. 

As the seasons touch their ending, 
As the dim years fade and flee, 

Let me rather still be sending 
Some good deed to plead for me. 

Then, though none should stay to weep 
me. 

Lover-like, within the shade. 
He will hold me. He will keep me, 

And I will not be afraid. 



SURE ANCHOR. 

Out of the heavens come down to me, 
O Lord, and hear my earnest prayer,- 

On life above the life I see 

Fi.x thou my soul, and keep it there. 

The richest joys of earth are poor ; 

The fairest forms are all unfair ; 
On what is peaceable and pure 

Set thou my heart, and keep it there. 

Pride builds her house upon the sand ; 

Ambition treads the spider's stair; 
On whatsoever things will stand 

Set thou my feet, and keep them there. 

The past is vanished in the past ; 

The future doth a shadow wear ; 
On whatsoever things are fast 

Fix thou mine eyes, and keep them 
there. 

In spite of slander's tongue, in spite 
Of burdens grievous hard to bear, 

To whatsoever things are right 

Set thou my hand, and keep it there. 

Life is a little troubled breath, 
Love but another name for care ; 

Lord, anchor thou my hope and faith 
In things eternal, — only there. 



REMEMBER. 

In thy time, and times of mourning. 
When grief doeth all she can 

To hide the prosperous sunshine, 
Remember this, O man, — 

" He sctteth an end to darkness." 

Sad saint, of the world forgotten, 
Who workest thy work apart, 

Take thou this promise for comfort, 
And hold it in thy heart, — 

" He searcheth out all perfection." 

O foolish and faithless sailor. 
When the ship is driven away, 

When the waves forget their places. 
And the anchor will not stay, — 

" He weigheth the waters by measure.' 

O outcast, homeless, bewildered, 
Let now thy murmurs be still. 



RELIGIOUS POEMS AND HYMNS. 



153 



Go in at the gates of gftidness 

And eat of the feast at will, — 
" For wisdom is better than riches." 

O diligent, diligent sower, 
Who sovvest thy seed in vain, 

When the corn in the ear is withered, 
And the young flax dies for rain, — 

" Throusrh rocks He cutteth out riv- 



ADELIED. 

Unpraised but of my simple rhymes, 
She pined from life and died. 

The softest of all April times 
That storm and shine divide. 

The swallow twittered within reach 

Impatient of the rain. 
And the red blossoms of the peach 

Blew down against the pane. 

When, feeling that life's wasting sands 

Were wearing into hours. 
She took her long locks in her hands 

And gathered out the flowers. 

The day was nearly on the close. 

And on the eave in sight. 
The doves were gathered in white rows 

With bosoms to the light ; 

When first my sorrow flowed to rhymes 

For gentle Adelied — 
The light of thrice five April times 

Had kissed her when she died. 



SUNDAY MORNING. 

O DAY to sweet religious thought 

So wisely set apart, 
Back to the silent strength of life 

Help thou my wavering heart. 

Nor let the obtrusive lives of sense 

My meditations draw 
From the composed, majestic realm 

Of everlasting law. 

Break down whatever hindering shapes 

I see, or seem to see, 
And make my soul acquainted with 

Celestial company. 



Beyond the wintry waste of death 
Shine fields of heavenly light ; 

Let not this incident of time 
Absorb me from their sight. 

I know these outward forms wherein 
So much my hopes I stay. 

Are but the shadowy hints of that 
Which cannot pass away. 

That just outside tne work-day path 

By man's volition trod, 
Lie the resistless issues of 

The things ordained of God. 



IN THE DARK. 

Out of the earthly years we live 
How small a profit springs ; 

I cannot think but life should give 
Higher and better things. 

The very ground whereon we tread 
Is clothed to please our sight ; 

I cannot think that we have read 
Our dusty lesson right. 

So little comfort we receive, 
Except through what we see, 

I cannot think we half believe 
Our immortality. 

We disallow and trample so 
The rights of poor weak men, 

I cannot think we feel and know 
They are our brethren. 

So rarely our affections move 

Without a selfish guard, 
I cannot think we know that love 

Is all of love's reward. 

To him who smites, the cheek is turned 

With such a slow consent, 
I cannot think that we have learned 

The holy Testament. 

Blind, ignorant, we grope along 

A path misunderstood. 
Mingling with folly and with wrong 

Some providential good. 

Striving with vain and idle strife 

In outward shows to live. 
We famish, knowing not that life 

Has better things to give. 



154 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



PARTING SONG. 

The long day is closing, 
Ah, why should you weep ? 

'T is thus that God gives 
His beloved ones sleep. 

I see the wide water 

So deep and so black, — 
Love waits me beyond it, - 

I would not go back ! 

1 would not go back 

Where its joys scarce may gleam, 
Where even in dreaming 

We know that we dream ; 

For though life filled for me 

All measures of bliss, 
Has it anything better 

Or sweeter than this ? 

I would not go back 

To the torment of fear, — 

To the wastes of uncomfort 
When home is so near. 

Each night is a prison-bar 

Broken and gone, — 
Each morning a golden gate, 

On, — farther on ! 

On, on toward the city 

So shining and fair ; 
And He that hath loved me — 

Died for me — is there. 



THE HEAVEN THAT 'S HERE. 

My God, I feel thy wondrous might 
In Nature's various shows, — 

The whirlwind's breath, — the tender 
light 
Of the rejoicing rose. 

For doth not that same power enfold 

Whatever things are new, 
Which shone about the saints of old 

And struck the seas in two .■' 

Ashamed, I veil my fearful eyes 
From this, thy earthly reign ; 

What shall I do when I arise 
From death, but die again ! 



What shall I do but prostrate fall 
Before the splendor there, 

That here, so dazzles me through all 
The dusty robes I wear. 

Life's outward and material laws, — 
Love, sunshine, all things bright, — 

Are curtains which thy mercy draws 
To shield us from that light. 

I falter when I try to seek 

The world which these conceal ; 

I stammer when I fain would speak 
The reverence that I feel. 

I dare not pray to thee to give 
That heaven which shall appear; 

My cry is. Help me, thou, to live 
Within the heaven that 's here. 



Among the pitfalls in our way 
The best of us walk blindly ; 

O man, be wary ! watch and pray, 
And judge your brother kindly. 

Help back his feet, if they have slid, 
Nor count him still your debtor ; 

Perhaps the very wrong he did 
Has made yourself the better. 



THE STREAM OF LIFE. 

The stream of life is going dry ; 

Thank God, that more and more 
I see the golden sands, which I 

Could never see before. 

The banks are dark with graves of 
friends ; 

Thank God, for faith sublime 
In the eternity that sends 

Its shadows into time. 

The flowers are gone that with their 
glow 
Of sunshine filled the grass ; 
Thank God, they were but dim and 
low ■ 
Reflections in a glass. 

The autumn winds are blowing chill ; 

The summer warmth is done ; 
Thank God, the little dew-strop still 

Is drawn into the sun. 



RELIGIOUS POEMS AND HYMNS. 



155 



Strange stream, to be exhaled so fast 

In cloudy cares and tears ; 
Thank God, that it should shine at 
last 

Along the immortal years. 



DEAD AND ALIVE. 

Till I learned to love thy name. 

Lord, thy grace denying, 
I was lost in sin and shame, 

Dying, dying, dying ! 

Nothing could the world impart. 
Darkness held no morrow ; 

In my soul and in my heart 
Sorrow, sorrow, sorrow ! 

All the blossoms came to blight ; 

Noon was dull and dreary ; 
Night and day, and day and night. 

Weary, weary, weary ! 

When I learned to love thy name, 

Peace beyond all measure 
Came, and in the stead of shame, 

Pleasure, pleasure, pleasure ! 

Winds may beat, and storms may fall, 
Thou, the meek and lowly, 

Reignest, and I sing through all, — > 
Holy, holy, holy ! 

Life may henceforth never be 

Like a dismal story. 
For beyond its bound I see 

Glory, glory, glory ! 



INVOCATION. 

Come down to us, help and heal us. 
Thou that once life's pathway trod. 

Knowing all its gloom and glory, — 
Son of man, and Son of God. 

Come down to us, help and heal us. 
When our hopes before us flee ; 

Thou hast been a man of sorrows. 
Tried and tempted, even as we. 

By the weakness of our nature. 
By the burdens of our care, 



Steady up our fainting courage, — 
Save, oh save us from despair ! 

By the still and strong temptation 
Of consenting hearts within ; 

By the power of outward evil, 
Save, oh save us from our sin ! 

By the infirm and bowed together, — 
By the demons far and near, — 

By all sick and sad possessions. 
Save, oh save us from our fear ! 

From the dim and dreary doubting 
That with faith a warfare make, 

Save us, through thy sweet compas- 
sion, — 
Save us, for thy own name's sake. 

And when all of life is finished 
To the last low fainting breath, 

Meet us in the awful shadows, 
And deliver us from death. 



LIFE OF LIFE. 

To Him who is the Life of life, 
My soul its vows would pay ; 

He leads the flowery seasons on, 
And gives the storm its way. 



their 



The winds run backward to 
caves 

At his divine command, — 
And the great deep He folds within 

The hollow of his hand. 

He clothes the grass. He makes the rose 

To wear her good attire ; 
The moon He gives her patient grace. 

And all the stars their fire. 

He hears the hungry raven's cry, 
And sends her young their food. 

And through our evil intimates 
His purposes of good. 

He stretches out the north, He binds 

The tempest in his care ; 
The mountains cannot strike their roots 

So deep He is not there. 

Hid in the garment of his works. 

We feel his presence still 
With us, and through us fashioning 

The mystery of his will. 



156 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



MERCIES. • 

Lest the great glory from on high 
Should make our senses swim, 

Our blessed Lord hath spread the sky 
Between ourselves and Him. 

He made the Sabbath shine before 
The work-days and the care. 

And set about its golden door 
The messengers of prayer. 

Across our earthly pleasures fled 
He sends his heavenly light, 

Like morning streaming broad and red 
Adovvn the skirts of night. 

He nearest comes when most his face 
Is wrapt in clouds of gloom ; 

The firmest pillars of his grace 
Are planted in the tomb. 

Oh shall we not the power of sin 

And vanity withstand, 
When thus our Father holds us in 

The hollow of his hand ? 



PLEASURE AND PAIN. 

Pleasure and pain walk hand in 
hand, 

Each is the other's poise ; 
The borders of the silent land 

Are full of troubled noise. 

While harvests yellow as the day 

In plenteous: billows roll, 
Men go about in blank dismay, 

Hungry of heart and soul. 

Like chance-sown weeds they grow, and 
drift 

On to the drowning main ; 
Oh, for a lever that would lift 

Thought to a higher plane ' 

Sin is destructive : he is dead 
Whose soul is lost to truth ; 

While virtue makes the hoary head 
Bright with eternal youth. 

There is a courage that partakes 

Of cowardice ; a high 
And honest-hearted fear that makes 

The man afraid to lie. 



When no low thoughts of self intrude. 

Angels adjust our rights ; 
And love that seeks its selfish good 

Dies in its own delights. 

How much we take, — how little give, — • 

Yet every life is meant 
To help all lives ; each man should live 

For all men's betterment. 



MYSTERIES. 

Clouds, with a little light between ; 

Pain, passion, fear, and doubt, — 
What voice shall tell me what they 
mean ? 

I cannot find them out ! 

Hopeless my task is, to begin, 
Who fail with all my power, 

To read the crimson lettering in 
The modest meadow flower. 

Death, with shut eyes and icy cheek, 

Bearing that bitter cup ; 
Oh, who is wise enough to speak, 

And break its silence up ! 

Or read the evil writing on 

The wall of good, for, oh, 
The more my reason shines upon 

Its lines, the less I know : 

Or show how dust became a rose. 

And what it is above 
All mysteries that doth compose 

Discordance into love. 

I only know that wisdom planned. 

And that it is my part 
To trust, who cannot understand 

The beating of my heart. 



LYRIC. 



Thou givest. Lord, to Nature law. 
And she in turn doth give 

Her poorest flower a right to draw 
Whate'er she needs to live. 

The dews upon her forehead fall. 
The sunbeams round her lean, 

And dress her humble form with all 
The glory of a queen. 



RELIGIOUS POEMS AND HYMNS. 



157 



In thickets wild, in woodland bowers. 

By waysides, everywhere, 
The plainest flower of all the flowers 

Is shining with thy care. 

And shall I, through my fear and doubt, 

Be less than one of these. 
And come from seeking thee without 

By blessed influences ? 

Thou who hast crowned my life with 
powers 

So large, — so high above 
The fairest flower of all the flowers, — 

Forbid it by thy love. 



TRUST. 



Away with all life's memories, 

Away with hopes, away ! 
Lord, take me up into thy love, 

And keep me there to-day. 

I cannot trust to mortal eyes 

My weakness and my sin ; 
Temptations He alone can judge, 

Who knows what they have been. 

But I can trust Him who provides 
The thirsty ground with dew. 

And round the wounded beetle builds 
His grassy house anew. 

For the same hand that smites with 
pain. 

And sends the wintry snows. 
Doth mould the frozen clod again 

Into the summer rose. 

My soul is melted by that love, 

So tender and so true ; 
I can but cry. My Lord and God, 

What wilt thou have me do .'' 

My blessings all come back to me, 
And round about me stand ; 

Help me to climb their dizzy stairs 
Until I touch thy hand. 



ALL IN ALL. 

Aweary, wounded unto death, — 
Unfavored of men's eyes, 



I have a house not made with hands, 
Eternal, in the skies. 

A house where but the steps of faith 
Through the white light have trod. 

Steadfast among the mansions of 
The City of our God. 

There never shall the sun go down 

From the lamenting day ; 
There storms shall never rise to beat 

The light of love away. 

There living streams through deathless 
flowers 

Are flowing free and wide ; 
There souls that thirsted here below 

Drink, and are satisfied. 

I know my longing shall be filled 
When this weak, wasting clay 

Is folded like a garment from 
My soul, and laid away. 

I know it by th' immortal hopes 
That wrestle down my fear, — 

By all the awful mysteries 
That hide heaven from us here. 

Oh what a blissful heritage 

On such as I to fall ; 
Possessed of thee, my Lord and God, 

I am possessed of all. 



THE PURE IN HEART. 

" Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see 
God." 

I ASKED the angels in my prayer. 
With bitter tears and pains, 

To show mine eyes the kingdom where 
The Lord of glory reigns. 

I said. My way with doubt is dim. 

My heart is sick with fear ; 
Oh come, and help me build to Him 

A tabernacle here ! 

The storms of sorrow wildly beat, 
The clouds with death are chill ; 

I long to hear his voice so sweet. 

Who whispered, " Peace ; be still ! " 

The angels said, God giveth you 
His love, — what more is ours ? 



158 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



And even as the gentle dew 
Descends upon the flowers, 

His grace descends ; and, as of old. 

He walks with man apart, 
Keeping the promise as foretold, 

With all the pure in heart. 

Thou need'st not ask the angels where 

His habitations be ; 
Keep thou thy spirit clean and fair, 

And He shall dwell with thee. 



UNSATISFIED. 

Come out from heaven, O Lord, and be 
my guide, 
Come, I implore ; 

To my dark questionings unsatisfied. 
Leave me no more, — 
No more, O Lord, no more ! 

Forgetting how my nights and how my 
days 
Run sweetly by, — 
Forgetting that thy ways above our 
ways 
Are all so high, — 
I cry, and ever cry — 

Since that thou leavest not the wildest 
glen, 
For flowers to wait, 
How leavest thou the hearts of living 
men 
So desolate, — 
So darkly desolate ? 

Thou keepest safe beneath the wintry 
snow 
The little seed, 
And leavest under all its weights of 
woe, 
The heart to bleed. 
And vainly, vainly plead. 

In the dry root thou stirrest up the sap ; 
At thy commands 

Cometh the rain, and all the bushes 
clap 
Their rosy hands : 
Man only, thirsting, stands. 

Is it for envy, or from wrath that 
springs 
From foolish pride. 



Thou leavest him to his dark question* 
ings 
Unsatisfied, — 
Always unsatisfied "i 



OCCASIONAL. 

Our mightiest in our midst is slain ; 

The mourners weep around, 
Broken and bowed with bitter pain, 

And bleeding through his wound. 

Prostrate, o'erwhelmed, with anguish 
torn. 

We cry, great God, for aid ; 
Night fell upon us, even at morn, 

And we are sore afraid. 

Afraid of our infirmities. 

In this, our woeful woe, — 
Afraid to breast the bloody seas 

That hard against us flow. 

The sword we sheathed, our enemy 
Has bared, and struck us through ; 

And heart, and soul, and spirit cry, 
What wilt thou have us do ! 

Be with our country in this grief 

That lies across her path. 
Lest that she mourn her martyred chief 

With an unrighteous wrath. 

Give her that steadfast faith and trust 
That look through all, to Thee; 

And in her mercy keep her just, 
And through her justice, free. 



LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 

Darkness, blind darkness every way, 
With low illuminings of light; 

Hints, intimations of the day 
That never breaks to full, clear lighti 

High longing for a larger light 
Urges us onward o'er life's hill ; 

Low fear of darkness and of night 
Presses us back and holds us still. 

So while to Hope we give one hand. 
The other hand to Fear we lend ; 



RELTGIOUS POEMS AND HYMNS. 



159 



And thus 'twixt high and low we stand, 
Waiting and wavering to the end. 

Eager fof some ungotten good, 

We mind the false and miss the true ; 

Leaving undone the things we would, 
We do the things we would not do. 

For ill in good and good in ill, 

The verity, the thing that seems, — 

They run into each other still, 

Like dreams in truth, like truth in 
dreams. 

Seeing the world with sin imbued. 
We trust that in the eternal plan 

Some little drop of brightest blood 
Runs through the darkest heart of 
man. 

Living afar from what is near, 

Uplooking while we downward tend ; 

In light and shadow, hope and fear, 
We sin and suffer to the end. 



SUBSTANCE. 

Each fearful storm that o'er us rolls, 

Each path of peril trod, 
Is but a means whereby our souls 

Acquaint themselves with God. 

Our want and weakness, shame and sin, 
His pitying kindness prove ; 

And all our lives are folded in 
The mystery of his love. 

The grassy land, the flowering trees, 
The waters, wild and dim, — 

These are the cloud of witnesses 
That testify of Him. 

His sun is shining, sure and fast, 
O'er all our nights of dread ; 

Our darkness by his light, at last 
Shall be interpreted. 

No promise shall He fail to keep 

Until we see his face ; 
E'en death is but a tender sleep 

In the eternal race. 

Time's empty shadow cheats our eyes, 

But all the heavens declare 
The substance of the things we prize 

Is there and only there. 



LIFE'S MYSTERY. 

Life's sadly solemn mystery 
Hangs o'er me like a weight ; 

The glorious longing to be free, 
The gloomy bars of fate. 

Alternately the good and ill, 
The light and dark, are strung ; 

Fountains of love within my heart. 
And hate upon my tongue. 

Beneath my feet the unstable grounds 

Above my head the skies ; 
Immortal longings in my soul, 

And death before my eyes. 

No purely pure, and perfect good, 
No high, unhindered power ; 

A beauteous promise in the bud. 
And mildew on the flower. 

The glad, green brightness of the spring ; 

The summer, soft and warm ; 
The faded autumn's fluttering gold, 

The whirlwind and the storm. 

To find some sure interpreter 

My spirit vainly tries ; 
I only know that God is love, 

And know that love is wise. 



FOR SELF-HELP. 

Master, I do not ask that thou 

With milk and wine my table spread. 

So much, as for the will to plough 
And sow my fields, and earn my 
bread ; 

Lest at thy coming I be found 

A useless cumberer of the ground. 

I do not ask that thou wilt bless 
With gifts of heavenly sort my day, 

So much, as that my hands may dress 
The borders of my lowly way 

With constant deeds of good and 
right, 

Thereby reflecting heavenly light. 

I do not ask that thou shouldst lift 
My feet to mountain-heights sublime, 

So much, as for the heavenly gift 
Of strength, with which myself ma/ 
climb. 



i6o 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



Making the power thou madest mine 
For using, by that use, divine. 

I do not ask that there may flow 
Glory about me from the skies ; 

The knowledge, that doth knowledge 
know ; 
The wisdom that is not too wise 

To see in all things good and fair. 

Thy love attested, is my prayer. 



DYING HYMN. 

Earth, with its dark and dreadful 
ills. 

Recedes, and fades away ; 
Lift up your heads, ye heavenly hills ; 

Ye gates of death, give way ! 

My soul is full of whispered song ; 

My blindness is my sight ; 
The shadows that I feared so long 

Are all alive with light. 

The while my pulses faintly beat, 

My faith doth so abound, 
I feel grow firm beneath my feet 

The green immortal ground. 

That faith to me a courage gives. 

Low as the grave, to go ; 
I know that my Redeemer lives : 

That I shall live, I know. 

The palace walls I almost see, 

Where dwells my Lord and King ; 

O grave, where is thy victory ! 
O death, where is thy sting ! 



EXTREMITIES. 

When the mildew's blight we see 
Over all the harvest spread. 

Humbly, Lord, we cry to thee. 
Give, oh give us, daily bread ! 

But the full and plenteous ears 

Many a time we reap with tears. 

When the whirlwind rocks the land, 
When the gathering clouds alarm. 

Lord, within thy sheltering hand, 
Hide, oh hide us from the storm ! 

So with trembling souls we cry, 

Till the cloud and noise pass by. 



When our pleasures fade away, 
When our hopes delusive prove, 

Prostrate at thy feet we pray, 

Shield, oh shield us with thy love ! 

But, our anxious plea allowed. 

We grow petulant and proud. 

When life's little day turns dull, 
When the avenging shades begin. 

Save us, O most Merciful, 

Save us, save us from our sin ! 

So, the last dread foe being near, 

We entreat thee, through our fear. 

Ere the dark our light efface, 
Ere our pleasure fleeth far. 

Make us worthier of thy grace, 
Stubborn rebels that we are ; 

While our good days round us shine, 

O our Father, make us thine. 



HERE AND THERE. 

Here is the sorrow, the sighing, 
Here are the cloud and the night; 

Here is the sickness, the dying, 
There are the life and the light ! 

Here is the fading, the wasting, 
The foe that so watchfully waits ; 

There are the hills everlasting. 
The city with beautiful gates. 

Here are the locks growing hoary. 
The glass with the vanishing sands ; 

There are the crown and the glory. 
The house that is made not with hands 

Here is the longing, the vision. 
The hopes that so swiftly remove ; 

There is the blessed fruition, 

The feast, and the fullness of love. 

Here are the heart-strings a-tremble 
And here is the chastening rod ; 

There is the song and the cymbal. 
And there is our Father and God. 



THE DAWN OF PEACE. 

After the cloud and the whirlwind, 
After the long, dark night. 

After the dull, slow marches. 
And the thick, tumultuous fight. 



RELIGIOUS POEMS AND HYMNS. 



i6i 



Thank God, we see the lifting 
Of the golden, glorious light ! 

After the sorrowful partings, 

After the sickening fear. 
And after the bitter sealing 

With blood, of year to year. 
Thank God, the light is breaking ; 

Thank God, the day is here ! 

The land is filled with mourning 
For husbands and brothers slain, 

But a hymn of glad thanksgiving 
Rises over the pain ; 

Thank God, our gallant soldiers 
Have not gone down in vain ! 

The cloud is spent ; the whirlwind 
That vexed the night is past ; 

And the day whose blessed dawning 
We see, shall surely last, 

Till all the broken fetters 

To ploughshares shall be cast ! 

W^hen over the field of battle 
The grass grows green, and when 

II 



The Spirit of Peace shall have planted 

Her olives once again. 
Oh, how the hosts of the people 

Shall cry, Amen, Amen ! 



Why should our spirits be opprest 
When days of darkness fall ? 

Our Father knoweth what is best, 
And He hath made them all. 

He made them, and to all their length 

Set parallels of gain ; 
We gather from our pain the strength 

To rise above our pain. 

All, all beneath the shining sun 

Is vanity and dust ; 
Help us, O high and holy One, 

To fix in thee our trust ; 

And in the change, and interfuse 
Of change, with every hour, 

To recognize the shifting hues 
Of never-changing Power. 



POEMS FOR CHILDREN. 



THE LITTLE BLACKSMITH. 

We heard his hammer all day long 

On the anvil ring and ring, 
But he always came when the sun went 
down 

To sit on the gate and sing- 

H's little hands so hard and brown 

Crossed idly on his knee, 
And straw hat lopping over cheeks 

As red as they could be ; 

His blue and faded jacket trimmed 
With signs of work, — his feet 

All bare and fair upon the grass, 
He made a picture sweet. 

For still his shoes, with iron shod, 
On the smithy-wall he hung ; 

As forth he came when the sun went 
down, 
And sat on the gate and sung. 

The whistling rustic tending cows, 
Would keep in pastures near, 

And half the busy villagers 
Lean from their doors to hear. 

And from the time the bluebirds came 
And made the hedges bright, 

Until the stubble yellow grew. 
He never missed a night. 

The hammer's stroke on the anvil filled 
His heart with a happy ring, 

And that was why, when the sun went 
down. 
He came to the gate to sing. 



LITTLE CHILDREN. 

Blessings, blessings on the beds 
Whose white pillows softly bear, 



Rows of little shining heads 
That have never known a care. 

Pity for the heart that bleeds 
In the homestead desolate 

Where no little troubling needs 
Make the weary working wait. 

Safely, safely to the fold 

Bring them wheresoe'er they be. 
Thou, who saidst of them, of old, 

" Suffer them to come to me." 



A CHRISTMAS STORY. 

TO BE READ BY ALL WHO DEAL HARDLt 
WITH YOUNG CHILDREN. 

PART I. 

Up, Gregory ! the cloudy east 

Is bright with the break o' the day ; 

'T is time to yoke our catde, and time 
To eat our crust and away. 

Up, out o' your bed ! for the rosy red 
Will soon be growing gray. 

Aye, straight to your feet, my lazy lad, 
And button your jacket on — 

Already neighbor Joe is afield. 
And so is our neighbor John — 

The golden light is turned to white 
And 't is time that we were gone ! 

Nay, leave your shoes hung high and 
dry — 

Do you fear a little sleet ? 
Your mother to-day is not by half 

So dainty with her feet, 
And I '11 warrant you she had n't a shoe 

At your age upon her feet ! 

What ! shiv'ring on an April day ? 
Why this is pretty news ! 



POEMS FOR CHILDREN. 



163 



The frosts before an hour will all 

Be melted into dews, 
And Christmas week will do, I think, 

To talk about your shoes ! 

Waiting to brew another cup 

Of porridge ? sure you 're mad — 

One cup at your age, Gregory, 
And precious small, I had. 

We cannot bake the Christmas cake 
At such a rate, my lad ! 

Out, out at once ! and on with the yoke. 
Your feet will never freeze ! 

The sun before we have done a stroke 
Will be in the tops o' the trees. 

A-Christmas Day you may eat and play 
As much as ever you please • 

So out of the house, and into the sleet, 

With his jacket open wide, 
Went pale and patient Gregory — 

All present joy denied — 
And yoked his team like one in a dream, 

Hungry and sleepy-eyed. 

PART II. 

It seemed to our litde harvester 
He could hear the shadows creep ; 

For the scythe lay idle on the grass, 
And the reaper had ceased to reap. 

'T was the burning noon of the leafy 
June, 
And the birds were all asleep 

And he seemed to rather see than hear 
The wind through the long leaves 
draw. 
As he sat and notched the stops along 

His pipe of hollow straw. 
On Christmas Day he had planned to 
play 
His tune without a flaw. 

Upon his sleeve the spider's web 
Hung loose like points of lace, 
And he looked like a picture painted 
there, 
He was so full of grace. 
For his cheeks they shone as if there 
had blown 
Fresh roses in his face. 

Ah, never on his lady's arm 

A lover's hand was laid 
With touches soft as his upoa 

The tlute that he had made, 



As he bent his ear and watched to hear 
The sweet, low tune he played. 

But all at once from out his cheek 
The light o' the roses fled — 

He had heard a coming step that 
crushed 
The daisies 'neath its tread. 

O happiness ! thou art held by less 
Than the spider's tiniest thread ! 

A moment, and the old harsh call 

Had broken his silver tune, 
And with his sickle all as bright 

And bent as the early moon. 
He cut his way through the thick set hay 

In the burning heat o' the June. 

As one who by a river stands, 

Weary and worn and sad. 
And sees the flowers the other side — 

So was it with the lad. 
There was Christmas light in his dream 
at night. 

But a dream was all he had. 

Work, work in the light o' th' rosy 
morns. 
Work, work in the dusky eves ; 
For now they must plough, and now 
they must plant, 
And now they must bind the sheaves. 
And far away was the holiday 
All under the Christmas leaves. 

For still it brought the same old cry. 

If he would rest or play. 
Some other week, or month, or year, 

But not now — not to-day ! 
Nor feast, nor flower, for th' passing 
hour, 

But all for the far away. 

PART III. 

Now Christmas came, and Gregory 
With the dawn was broad awake ; 

But there was the crumple cow to milk. 
And there was the cheese to make ; 

And so it was noon ere he went to the 
town 
To buy the Christmas cake. 

" You '11 leave your warm, new coat at 
home. 

And keep it fresh and bright 
To wear," the careful old man said, 

" When you come back to-night." 



164 



THE rOEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



" Aye," answered the lad, for his heart 
was glad, 
And he whistled out o' their sight. 

The frugal couple sat by the fire 

And talked the hours away, 
Turning over the years like leaves 

To the friends of their wedding-day — 
Saying who was wed, and who was dead, 

And who was growing gray. 

And so at last the day went by, 
As, somehow, all days will ; 

And when the evening winds began 
To blow up wild and shrill, 

They looked to see if their Gregory 
Were coming across the hill. 

They saw the snow-cloud on the sky, 
With its rough and ragged edge, 

And thought of the river running high. 
And thought of the broken bridge ; 

But they did not see their Gregory 
Keeping his morning's pledge ! 

The old wife rose, her fear to hide, 

And set the house aright. 
But oft she paused at the window 
side. 

And looked out on the night. 
The candles fine, they were all a-shine, 

But they could not make it light. 

The very clock ticked mournfully. 
And the cricket was not glad, 

And to the old folks sitting alone, 
The time was, oh ! so sad ; 

For the Christmas light, it lacked that 
night 
The cheeks of their little lad. 

The winds and the woods fall wrestling 
now. 
And they cry, as the storm draws 
near, 
" If Gregory were but home alive. 

He should not work all this year ! " 
For they saw him dead in the river's 
bed, 
Through the surges of their fear. 

Of ghosts that walk o' nights they tell — 
A sorry Christmas theme — 

And of signs and tokens in the air. 
And of many a warning dream. 

Till the bough at the pane through th' 
sleet and rain 
Drags like a corpse in a stream. 



There was the warm, new coat unworn, 
And the flute of straw unplayed ; 

And these were dreadfuUer than ghosts 
To make their souls afraid. 

As the years that were gone came one 
by one. 
And their slights before them laid. 

The Easter days and the Christmas 
days 
Bereft of their sweet employ, 
And working and waiting through them 
all 
Their little pale-eyed boy, 
Looking away to the holiday 

That should bring the promised joy. 

" God's mercy on us ! " cried they both, 
" We have been so blind and deaf ; 

And justly are our gray heads bowed 
To the very grave with grief." 

But hark ! is 't the rain that taps at the 
pane, 
Or the fluttering, falling leaf .-' 

Nay, fluttering leaf, nor snow, nor rain. 

However hard they strive, 
Can make a sound so sweet and soft. 

Like a bee's wing in the hive. 
Joy ! joy ! oh joy ! it is their boy ! 

Safe, home, in their arms alive ! 

Ah, never was there pair so rich 

As they that night, I trow, 
And never a lad in all the world 

With a merrier pipe to blow. 
Nor Christmas light that shone so 
bright 

At midnight on the snow. 



NOVEMBER. 

The leaves are fading and falling. 
The winds are rough and wild, 

The birds have ceased their calling, 
But let me tell you, my child, 

Though day by day, as it closes. 
Doth darker and colder grow, 

The roots of the bright red roses 
Will keep alive in the snow. 

And when the winter is over, 
The boughs will get new leaves. 

The quail come back to the clover. 
And the swallow back to the eaves. 



POEMS FOR CHILDREN. 



165 



The robin will wear on his bosom 
A vest that is bright and new, 

And the loveliest way-side blossom 
Will shine with the sun and dew. 

The leaves to-day are whirling, 
The brooks are all dry and dumb, 

But let me tell you, my darling, 
The spring will be sure to come. 

There must be rough, cold weather, 
And winds and rains so wild ; 

Not all good things together 
Come to us here, my child. 

So, when some dear joy loses 
Its beauteous summer glow. 

Think how the roots of the roses 
Are kept alive in the snow. 



MAKE-BELIEVE. 

All upon a summer day. 

Seven children, girls and boys. 

Raking in the meadow hay, 

Waked the echoes with their noise. 

You must know them by their names ■ 

Fanny Field and Mary, 
Benjamin and Susan James, 

Joe and John M'Clary. 

Then a child, so very small. 
She was only come for play — 
Little Miss Matilda May, 

And you have them one and all. 

'T was a pretty sight to see — 
Seven girls and boys together 

Raking in the summer weather, 
Merry as they well could be ! 

But one lad that we must own 
Many a lad has represented, 
Doing well, was not contented 

To let well enough alone ! 

This was Master Benny James, 
Brother, you will see, to Sue, 

If you glance along the names 
As I set them down for you. 

Out he spoke — this Benjamin — 
Standing with his lazy back 
Close against a fragrant stack. 

Out and up he spoke, and then 



Called with much ado and noise 

All the seven girls and boys 
From their raking in the hay — 

Fanny Field and Mary, 
Sister Sue and Tilly May, 

Joe and John M'Clary. 

Two by two, and one by one 

Turned upon their work their backa^ 
And with skip, and hop, and run 

In and out among the stacks, 

Came with faces flushed and red 
As the flowers along the glen, 
And began to question Ben, 

WMto made answer back, and said — 
Speaking out so very loud — 
Holding up his head so proud. 
As he leaned his lazy back 
Close against the fragrant stack : 

" Listen will you, girls and boys ! 
This is what I have to say — 
I 've invented a new play ! " 
Then they cried with merry noise — 

"Tell us all about it, Ben ! " 

And he answered — " First of all, 
All we boys, or large or small. 

Must pretend that we are men ! 

" And you girls, Fan, Sue, and Molly, 
Must pretend that you 're birds. 
And must chirp and sing your words— 

Never was there play so jolly ! 

" I 'm to be called Captain Gray, 
And, of course, the rest of you 

All must do as I shall say." 
Here he called his sister Sue, 
Telling her she must be blue, 

And must answer to her name 

When the call of Bluebird came. 

Fanny Field must be a Jay, 
And the rest — no matter what — 
Anything that they were not ! 

Mary might be Tilly May, 
And Matilda, as for her. 
She might be a Grasshopper I 

All cried out, " Oh, what a play ! " 

Fanny Field and Mary, 
Susy James and Tilly May, 

Joe and John M'Clary. 

Here Ben said he was not Ben 
Any more, but Captain Gray ! 

And gave order first — " My men, 
Forward ! march ! and rake the hay ! " 



1 66 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



Then he told his sister Sue 
She must go and do the same, 

But, forgetting she was blue, 
Called her by her proper name. 

Loud enough laughed Susan then, 
And declared she would not say 
Any longer Captain Gray, 

But would only call him Ben ! 

This was such a dreadful falling 

Ben got angry, and alas, 
Made the matter worse, by calling 

Little Tilly, Hoppergrass ! 

Fanny Field, he did make out 
To call Jay-bird, once or twice. 

And, in turn, she flew about, 
Chirping very wild and nice. 

Once she tried to make a wing, 
Holding wide her linsey gown, 
And went flapping up and down, 

Laughing so she could n't sing. 

But the captain to obey 
When he called her Tilly May, 

Was too hard for Mary, 
And Matilda — praise to her — 
Could not play the grasshopper. 
But in honesty of heart. 
Quite forgetful of her part. 

Spoke to John M'Clary ! 

Thus the hay-making went on. 
Very bad and very slow — 

All the worse that Joe and John 
Now were Mister John and Joe ! 

Work is work, and play is play, 
And the two will not be one ; 

Therefore half the meadow-hay 
Lay unraked at set of sun. 

Then the farmer who had hired 
All the seven girls and boys, 

Being out of heart, and tired 

With no work and much of noise, 

Came upon them all at once, 
And made havoc of their play. 

Calling Benjamin a dunce, 
In the stead of Captain Gray ! 

So to make excuse, in part. 
For the unraked field of hav, 

Tilly — bless her honest heart ! — 
Up and told about the play. 



How that Benny, discontented 
With the work of raking hay. 

Of his own head had invented 
Such a pretty, pretty play ! 

" Benny calls it Make-believe ! " 
Tilly said, with cheeks aglow, 

" Not at all, sir, to deceive. 
But to make things fine, you know?' 

Then she said, that he might see 
Just how charming it must be, 
" Fanny Field, sir, is a jay, 

And her sister Mary, 
Is myself, Matilda May, 

Joe and John M'Clary, 
Mister Joe and Mister John — 
Sue a bluebird and so on 
Up to lofty Captain Gray. 
Oh it is the funniest play ! 
Would n't you like to play it, sir? 
I was just a grasshopper. 
But I could n't play my part ! 

Hopping, I was sure to fall — 
Somehow, 't was not in my heart, 

But 't was very nice, for all ! " 

Looking in the farmer's eyes. 
All a-tiptoe stood the child j 

Half in kindliness he smiled, 
Half in pitiful surprise. 

Then he said, " My little friends," 
Calling one by one their names, 

Fanny Field and Mary, 
Benjamin and Susan James, 

Joe and John M'Clary, 
And Matilda — " Life's great ends 

Are not gained by make-believe. 

" This you all must learn at length, 
Lies are weak and truth is strong. 
And as much as you deceive. 

Just so much you lose of strength — 
Right is right, and wrong is wrong. 

" If 't is hay you want to make, 
Mind this, every one of you ! 

You must call a rake, a rake. 
And must use it smartly, too. 

" Oh, be honest through and through f 
Cherish truth until it grows, 
And through all your being shows 

Like the sunshine in the dew ! 

" Using power is getting power — 
He that givcth seldom lacks. 



POEMS FOR CHILDREN. 



167 



Doing right, wrong done retrieves." 
Then the children turned their backs 

On their foolish make-believes. 

And in just a single hour 

Filled the meadow full of stacks ! 

And as home they went that night, 
Each and all had double pay 
For the raking of that hay, 

And the best pay was delight. 

And I think without a doubt, 

If they lived they all became 
Wiser women, wiser men 
For the lesson learned that day. 
Simple-hearted Tilly May, 
Fanny Field and Mary, 

Susan James and Benjamin, 

Joe and John M'Clary, 
Leaving in their lives the game 

Of the make-believing out ; 
Yes, I think so, without doubt. 



A NUT HARD TO CRACK. 

Says John to his mother, " Look here ! 

look here ! 
For my brain is on the rack — 
I have gotten a nut as smooth to the 

sight 
As the shell of an egg, and as fair and 

white, 
Except for a streak of black. 
Why that should mar it I can't make 

clear." 
And Johnny's mother replied, " My dear, 
Your nut will be hard to crack." 

John, calling louder, " Look here ! look 
here ! 
I want to get on the track. 
And trace the meaning, for never a 

nut 
Had outside fairer than this one, but 

For this ugly streak of black ! 
I can't for my life its use make clear." 
And Johnny's mother replied, " My 
dear. 
Your nut will be hard to crack." 

Then John, indignant, " Look here ! 

look here ! " 
And he gave the hammer a thwack ; 
^lul there was the nut quite broke m 

two. 



And all across it, and through and 
through. 
The damaging streak of black ! 
" It grew with his growth," he says, 

" that 's clear, 
But why ! " And his mother replied, 
" My dear. 
That nut will be hard to crack." 

Then John, in anger, " Look here ! look 
here ! 

You may have your wisdom back. 
The nut is cracked — broke all to splint, 
But it does n't give me even a hint 

Toward showing why the black 
Should spoil the else sweet meat." " My 

dear," 
Says Johnny's mother, " it 's very clear 

Your nut will be hard to crack." 

" For, John, whichever way we steer. 

There is evil on our track ; 
And whence it came, or how it fell, 
No wisest man of all can tell. 

We only know that black 
Is mixed with white, and pain with bliss, 
So all that I can say is this, 

Your nut will be hard to crack." 



HIDE AND SEEK. 

As I sit and watch at the window-pane 
The light in the sunset skies. 

The pictures rise in my heart and brain 
As the stars do in the skies. 

Among the rest, doth rise and pass. 
With the blue smoke curling o'er. 

The house I was born in, with the gras» 
And roses round the door. 

I see the well-sweep, rough and brown, 
And I hear the creaking tell 

Of the bucket going up and down 
On the stony sides of the well. 

I see the cows, by the water-side — 
Red Lily, and Pink, and Star, — 

And the oxen with their horns so wide, 
Close locked in playful war. 

I see the field where the mowers stand 
In the clover-flowers, knee-deep ; 

And the one with his head upon his 
hand, 
In the locust-shade asleep. 



1 68 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



I see beneath his shady brim, 

The heavy eyelids sealed, 
And the mowers stopping to look at him. 

As they mow across the field. 

I hear the bluebird's twit-te-tweet ! 

And the robin's whistle blithe ; 
And then I see him spring to his feet, 

And take up his shining scythe. 

I see the barn with the door swung out, — 
Still dark with its mildew streak, — 

And the stacks, and the bushes all 
about, 
Where we played at Hide and Seek ! 

I see and count the rafters o'er, 
'Neath which the swallow sails. 

And I see the sheaves on the threshing- 
floor, 
And the threshers with the flails. 

I hear the merry shout and laugh 
Of the careless boys and girls. 

As the wind-mill drops the golden chaff, 
Like sunshine in their curls. 

The shadow of all the years that stand 
'Twixt me and my childhood's day, 

I strip like a glove from off my hand, 
And am there with the rest at play. 

Out there, half hid in its leafy screen, 

I can see a rose-red cheek, 
And up in the hay-mow I catch the 
sheen 

Of the darling head I seek. 

Just where that whoop was smothered 
low, 

I have seen the branches stir ; 
It is there that Margaret hides, I know. 

And away I chase for her ! 

And now with curls that toss so wide 
They shade his eyes like a brim. 

Runs I3ick for a safer place to hide, 
And I turn and chase for him ! 

And rounding close by the jutting stack. 
Where it hangs in a rustling sheet, 

In spite of the body that presses back, 
I espy two tell-tale feet ! 

Now all at once with a reckless shout, 
Alphonse from his covert s])rings. 

And whizzes by, with his elbows out, 
Like a pair of sturdy wings. 



Then Charley leaps from the cattle-raclti 
And spins at so wild a pace. 

The grass seems fairly swimming back 
As he shouts, " I am home ! Base ! 
Base ! " 

While modest Mary, shy as a nun. 
Keeps close by the grape-vine rail. 

And waits, and waits, till our game is 
done. 
And never is found at all 

But suddenly, at my crimson pane, 
The lights grow dim and die. 

And the pictures fade from my heart 
and brain. 
As the stars do from the sky. 

The bundles slide from the threshing- 
floor. 

And the mill no longer whirls. 
And I find my playmates now no more 

By their shining cheeks and curls. 

I call them far, and I call them wide, 
From the prairie, and over the sea, 

" Oh why do you tarry, and where do 
you hide ? " 
But they may not answer me. 

God grant that when the sunset sky 
Of my life shall cease to glow, 

I may find them waiting me on high. 
As I waited them below. 



THREE BUGS. 

Three little bugs in a basket, 

And hardly room for tzoo ! 

And one was yellow, and one was black, 

And one like me, or you. 

The space was small, no doubt, for all ; 

But what should three bugs do } 

Three little bugs in a basket. 

And hardly crumbs for two ; 

And all were selfish in their hearts, 

The same as I or you ; 

So the strong ones said, " We will ea{ 

the bread, 
And that is what we '11 do." 

Three little bugs in a basket, 
And the beds but two would hold ; 
So they all three fell to quarreling — 
The white, and the black, and the gold, 



POEMS FOR CHILDREN. 



169 



And two of the bugs got under the rugs, 
And one was out in the cold ! 

So he that was left in the basket, 
Without a crumb to chew, 
Or a thread to wrap himself withal. 
When the wind across him blew. 
Pulled one of the rugs from one of the 

bugs, 
And so the quarrel grew ! 

And so there was tvar in the basket. 

Ah, pity, 't is, 't is true ! 

But he that was frozen and starved at 

last, 
A strength from his weakness drew. 
And pulled the rugs from both of the 

bugs, 
And killed and ate them, too ! 

Now, when bugs live in a basket, 
Though more than it well can hold. 
It seems to me they had better agree — 
The white, and the black, and the gold — 
And share what comes of the beds and 

crumbs, 
And leave no bug in the cold ! 



WAITING FOR SOMETHING TO 
TURN UP. 

"And why do you throw down your 
hoe by the way 
As if that furrow were done ? " 
It was the good farmer, Bartholomew 
Grey, 
That spoke on this wise to his son. 

Now Barty, the younger, was not very 
bad, 
But he didn't take kindly to work. 
And the father had oftentimes said of 
the lad 
That the thing he did best was to 
shirk ! 

It was early in May, and a beautiful 
morn — 
The rosebuds tipt softly with red — 
The pea putting on her white bloom, 
and the corn 
Being just gotten up out of bed. 

And after the first little break of the 
day 
Had broadened itself on the blue. 



The provident farmer, Bartholomew 
Grey, 
Had driven afield through the dew. 

His brown mare. Fair Fanny, in collar 
and hames 
Went before him, so sturdy and stout, 
And ere the sun's fire yet had kindled 
to flames. 
They had furrowed the field twice 
about. 

And still as they came to the southerly 
slope 
He reined in Fair Fanny, with Whoa ! 
And gazed toward the homestead, and 
gazed, in the hope 
Of seeing young Barty — but no ! 

" Asleep yet ? " he said — " in a minute 
the horn 
That shall call to the breakfast, will 
sound, 
And all these long rows of the tender 
young corn 
Left choking, and ploughed in the 
ground ! " 

Now this was the work, which the far- 
mer had planned 
For Barty — a task kindly meant, 
To follow the plough, with the hoe in 
his hand. 
And to set up the stalks as he went. 

But not till the minutes to hours had 
run, 
And the heat was aglow far and 
wide. 
Did he see his slow-footed and sleepy- 
eyed son 
A-dragging his hoe by his side. 

Midway of the corn field he stopped, 
gaped around ; 
"What use is there working.'"' says 
he, 
And saying so, threw himself flat on the 
ground 
In the shade of a wide-spreading tree. 

And this was the time that Bartholo- 
mew Grey, 
Fearing bad things might come to the 
worst, 
Drew rein on Fair Fanny, the sweat 
wiped away, 
And spoke as we quoted at first 



170 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



He had thought to have given the lad 
such a start 
As would bring him at once to his 
feet, 
And he stood in the furrow, amazed, as 
young Bart, 
Lying lazy, and smiling so sweet, 

Replied — "The world owes me a liv- 
ing, you see. 
And something, or sooner or late, 
t 'm certain as can be, will turn up for 
me, 
And I am contented to wait ! " 

* My son," says the farmer, " take this 
to your heart. 
For to live in the world is to learn. 
The good things that turn tip are for 
the most part 
The things we ourselves help to turn ! 

" So boy, if you want to be sure of your 
bread 
Ere the good time of working is 
gone. 
Brush the cobwebs of nonsense all out 
of your head. 
And take up your hoe, and move on ! " 



SUPPOSE. 

How dreary would the meadows be 
In the pleasant summer light. 

Suppose there was n't a bird to sing. 
And suppose the grass was white ! 

And dreary would the garden be, 

With all its flowery trees. 
Suppose there were no butterflies. 

And suppose there were no bees. 

And what would all the beauty be. 
And what the song that cheers, 

Suppose we had n't any eyes, 
And suppose we had n't ears ? 

For though the grass were gay and 
green, 

And song-birds filled the glen. 
And the air were purple with butterflies. 

What good would they do us then } 

Ah, think of it, my little friends ; 

And when some pleasure flies, 
Why, let it go, and still be glad 

That you have your ears and eyes. 



A GOOD RULE. 

A FARMER, who owned a fine orchard, 
one day 

Went out with his sons to take a sur- 
vey. 

The time of the year being April or 
May. 

The buds were beginning to break into 

bloom. 
The air all about him was rich with 

perfume. 
And nothing, at first, waked a feeling of 

gloom. 

But all at once, going from this place 

to that. 
He shaded his eyes with the brim of 

his hat. 
Saying, " Here is a tree dying out, that 

is flat I " 

He called his sons, Joseph and John, 

and said he, 
*' This sweeting, you know, was my 

favorite tree — 
Just look at the top now, and see what 

you see ! 

" The blossoms are blighted, and, sure 

as you live, 
It won't have a bushel of apples to 

give ! 
What ails it .' the rest of the trees seem 

to thrive. 

" Run, boys, bring hither your tools, 

and don't stop, 
But take every branch that is falling 

alop, 
And saw it out quickly, from bottom to 

top ! " 

" Yes, father," they said, and away they 

both ran — 
For they always said father, and never 

old man, 
And for my part I don't see how good 

children can. 

And before a half hour of the morning 

was gone. 
They were back in the orchard, both 

Joseph and John, 
And presently all the dead branches 

were sawn. 



POEMS FOR children: 



171 



• Well, bop," said the farmer, " I think, 

for my share, 
If the rain and the sunshine but second 

our care, 
The old sweeting yet will be driven to 

bear ! " 

And so when a month, may be more, 

had gone by. 
And borne out the June, and brought 

in the July, 
He came back the luck of the pruning 

to try. 

And lo ! when the sweeting was reached, 

it was found 
That windfalls enough were strewn 

over the ground. 
But never an apple all blushing and 

sound. 

Then the farmer said, shaping his mo- 
tions to suit. 

First up to the boughs and then down 
to the fruit, 

" Come Johnny, come Joseph, and dig 
to the root ! " 

And straightway they came with their 
spades and their hoes. 

And threw off their jackets, and shout- 
ing, " Here goes ! " 

They digged down and down with the 
sturdiest blows. 

And, by and by, Joseph his grubbing- 

hoe drew 
From the earth and the roots, crying, 

" Father, look ! do ! " 
And he pointed his words with the toe 

of his shoe ! 

And the farmer said, shaping a gesture 

to suit, 
" I see why our sweeting has brought 

us no fruit — 
There 's a worm sucking out all the sap 

at the root ! " 

Then John took his spade with an 

awful grimace, 
And lifted the ugly thing out of its 

place, 
And put the loose earth back in very 

short space. 

And when the next year came, it only 
is fair 



To say, that the sweeting rewarded the 

care, 
And bore them good apples, enough 

and to spare. 

And now, my dear children, whenever 

you see 
A life that is profitless, think of that 

tree ; 
For ten chances to one, you '11 find there 

will be 

Some habit of evil indulged day by day, 
And hid as the earth-worm was hid in 

the clay. 
That is steadily sapping the life-blood 

away. 

The fruit, when the blossom is blighted, 

will fall ; 
The sin will be searched out, no matter 

how small ; 
So, what you 're ashamed to do, don't 

do at all. 



TO MOTHER FAIRIE. 

Good old mother Fairie, 

Sitting by your fire, 
Have you any little folk 

You would like to hire? 

I want no chubby drudges 
To milk, and churn, and spin, 

Nor old and wrinkled Brownies, 
With grisly beards, and thin : 

But patient little people, 

With hands of busy care. 
And gentle speech, and loving hearts 

Say, have you such to spare ? 

I know a poor, pale body. 
Who cannot sleep at night. 

And I want the little people 
To keep her chamber bright ; 

To chase away the shadows 

That make her moan and weep, 

To sing her loving lullabies. 
And kiss her eyes asleep. 

And when in dreams she reaches 
For pleasures dead and gone. 

To hold her wasted fingers. 
And make the rings stay on. 



172 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



They must be very cunning 

To make the future shine 
Like leaves, and flowers, and strawber- 
ries, 

A-growing on one vine. 

Good old mother Fairie, 

Since my need you know, 
Tell me, have you any folk 

Wise enough to go ? 



BARBARA BLUE. 

There was an old woman 

Named Barbara Blue, 
But not tlie old woman 

Who lived in a shoe, 
And did n't know what 

With her children to do. 

For she that I tell of 

Lived all alone, 
A miserly creature 

As ever was known. 
And had never a chick 

Or child of her own. 

She kept very still, 

Some said she was meek ; 
Others said she was only 

Too stingy to speak ; 
That her little dog fed 

On one bone for a week ! 

She made apple-pies. 

And she made them so tart 
That the mouths of the children 

Who ate them would smart ; 
And these she went peddling 

About in a cart. 

One day, on her travels. 
She happened to meet 

A farmer, who said 

He had apples so sweet 

That all the town's-people 
Would have them to eat. 

"And how do you sell them ?" 

Says Barbara Blue. 
"Why, if you want only 

A bushel or two," 
Says the farmer, " I don't mind 

To give them to you." 

" What ! give me a bushel ? " 
Cries Barbara Blue, 



"A bushel of apples, 
And sweet apples, too !" 

" Be sure," says the farmer, 
" Be sure, ma'am, I do." 

And then he said if she 

Would give him a tart 
( She had a great basket full 

There in her cart), 
He would show her the orchard, 

And then they would part. 

So she picked out a little one, 

Burnt at the top. 
And held it a moment. 

And then let it drop. 
And then said she had n't 

A moment to stop. 
And drove her old horse 

Away, hippity hop ! 

One night when the air was 
All blind with the snow, 

Dame Barbara, driving 
So soft and so slow 

That the farmer her whereabouts 
Never would know, 

Went after the apples ; 

And avarice grew 
When she saw their red coats, 

Till, before she was through, 
She took twenty bushels, 

Instead of the two ! 

She filled the cart full, 
And she heaped it a-top, 

And if just an apple 

Fell off, she would stop, 

And then drive ahead again, 
Hippity hop ! 

Her horse now would stumble, 
And now he would fall, 

And where the high river-bank 
Sloped like a wall. 

Sheer down, they went over it, 
Apples and all ! 



TAKE CARE. 

Little children, you must seek 
Rather to be good than wise. 

For the thoughts you do not speak 
Shine out in your cheeks and eyea 



POEMS FOR CHILDREN. 



173 



If you think that you can be 
Cross or cruel, and look fair, 

Let me tell you how to see 
You are quite mistaken there. 

Go and stand before the glass, 
And some ugly thought contrive, 

And my word will come to pass 
Just as sure as you 're alive ! 

What you have, and what you lack, 
All the same as what you wear, 

You will see reflected back ; 
So, my little folks, take care ! ' 

And not only in the glass 

Will your secrets come to view ; 
All beholders, as they pass, 

Will perceive and know them too. 

Goodness shows in blushes bright. 
Or in eyelids dropping down, 

Like a violet from the light ; 
Badness, in a sneer or frown. 

Out of sight, my boys and girls, 
Every root of beauty starts ; 

So think less about your curls, 
More about your minds and hearts. 

Cherish what is good, and drive 
Evil thoughts and feelings far ; 

For, as sure as you 're alive, 
You will show for what you are. 



THE GRATEFUL SWAN. 

One day, a poor peddler, 

Who carried a pack. 
Felt something come 

Flippity-flop on his back. 

He looked east and west, 

He turned white, he turned red, 
Then bent his back lower. 

And traveled ahead. 

The sun was gone down 
When he entered his door. 

And loosened the straps 

From his shoulders once mora 

Then up sprang his wife, 
Crying, " Bless your heart, John 



Here, sitting atop of your pack, 
Is a swan. 

" A wing like a lily, 

A beak like a rose ; 
Now good luck go with her 

Wherever she goes ! " 

" Dear me ! " cried the peddler, 
" What fullness of crop ! 

No wonder I felt her 
Come flippity-flop ! 

" I '11 bet you, good wife. 
All the weight of my pack, 

I 've carried that bird 

For ten miles on my back ! " 

" Perhaps," the wife answered, 
" She '11 lay a gold egg 

To pay you ; but, bless me I 
She 's broken a leg." 

Then went to the cupboard. 
And brought from the shelf 

A part of the supper 

She 'd meant for herself. 

Of course two such nurses 

Effected a cure ; 
One leg stiff, but better 

Than none, to be sure ! 

" No wonder," says John, 
As she stood there a-lop, 

" That I should have felt her 
Come flippity-flop ! " 

Then straight to his pack 

For a bandage he ran. 
While Jannet, the good wife. 

To splints broke her fan ; 

And, thinking no longer 

About the gold egg, 
All tenderly held her 

And bound up the leg; 

All summer they lived 

Thus together — the swan. 

And peddler and peddler's wife, 
Jannet and John. 

At length, when the leaves 
In the garden grew brown, 

The bird came one day 

With her head hanging down; 



174 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



And told her kind master 

And mistress so dear, 
Slie was going to leave them 

Perhaps for a year. 

" What mean you ? " cried Jannet, 
" What mean you ? " cried John. 

" You will see, if I ever 

Come back," said the swan. 

And so, with the tears 

Rolling down, drip-a-drop, 

She lifted her snowy wings, 
Flippity-flop ! 

And sailed away, stretching 

Her legs and her neck, 
Till all they could see 

Was a little white speck. 

Then Jannet said, turning 

Her eyes upon John, 
But speaking, no doubt. 

Of the bird that was gone : 

"A wing like a lily, 

A beak like a rose ; 
/^nd good luck go with her 

Wherever she goes ! " 

The winter was weary, 

But vanished at last. 
As all winters will do ; 

And when it was past, 

And doffies beginning 

To show their bright heads, 

One day as our Jannet 
Was making the beds — 

The beds in the garden, 

I 'd have you to know, 
She saw in the distance 

A speck white as snow. 

She saw it sail nearer 

And nearer, then stop 
And land in her garden path, 

Flippity-flop ! 

One moment of wonder. 
Then cried she, " O John ! 

As true as you 're living, man, 
Here is our swan ! 

" And by her sleek feathers. 
She comes from the south ; 



But what thing is this 

Shining so in her mouth ?" 

" A diamond ! " cried Johnny ; 

The swan nearer drew. 
And dropped it in Jannet's 

Nice apron of blue ; 

Then held up the mended leg 

Quite to her crop, 
And danced her great wings 

About, flippity-flop ! 

" I never beheld such a bird 

In my life ! " 
Cried Johnny, the peddler ; 

" Nor I ! " said his wife. 



A SHORT SERMON. 

Children, who read my lay, 
Thus much I have to say : 
Each day, and every day, 

Do what is right ! 
Right things, in great and small ; 
Then, though the sky should fall, 
Sun, moon, and stars, and all, 

You shall have light ! 

This further I would say : 
Be you tempted as you may, 
Each day, and every day, 

Speak what is true ! 
True things, in great and small ; 
Then, though the sky should fall, 
Sun, moon, and stars, and all. 

Heaven would show through ! 

Figs, as you see and know, 
Do not out of thistles grow ; 
And, though the blossoms blow 

White on the tree. 
Grapes never, never yet 
On the limbs of thorns were set ; 
So, if you a good would get, 

Good you must be ! 

Life's journey, through and through. 
Speaking what is just and true ; 
Doing what is right to do 

Unto one and all. 
When you work and when you play 
Each day, and every day ; 
Then peace shall gild your way. 

Though the sky should fall. 



POEMS FOR children: 



175 



STORY OF A BLACKBIRD. 

Come, gather round me, children. 
Who just as you please would do, 

And hear me tell what fate befell, 
A blackbird that I knew. 

He lived one year in our orchard, 
From spring till fall, you see. 

And swung and swung, and sung and 
sung, 
In the top of the highest tree. 

He had a blood-red top-knot. 

And wings that were tipped to match : 
And he held his head as if he said, 

" I 'm a fellow hard to catch ! " 

And never built" himself a nest, 

Nor took a mate — not he ! 
But swung and swung, and sung and 
sung. 

In the top of the highest tree. 

And yet, the little bluebird, 

So modest and so shy, 
Could beat him to death with a single 
breath. 

If she had but a mind to try. 

And the honest, friendly robin, 

That went in a russet coat. 
Though he was n't the bird that sung to 
be heard, 

Had twice as golden a throat. 

But robin, bluebird, and all the birds, 
Were afraid as they could be ; 

He looked so proud and sung so loud, 
Atop of the highest tree. 

We often said, we children, 

lie only wants to be seen ! 
For his bosom set like a piece of jet, 

In the glossy leaves of green. 

He dressed his feathers again and again. 

Till the oil did fairly run, 
And the tuft on his head, of bright 
blood-red. 

Like a ruby shone in the sun. 

But summer lasts not always. 

And the leaves they faded brown ; 

A.nd when the breeze went over the 
trees. 
They fluttered down and down. 



The robin, and wren, and bluebird, 
They sought a kindlier clime ; 

But the blackbird cried, in his foolish 
pride, 
" I 'II see my own good time ! " 

And whistled, whistled, and whistled, 

Perhaps to hide his pain ; 
Until, one day, the air grew gray. 

With the slant of the dull, slow rain. 

And then, wing-tip and top-knot, 
They lost their blood-red shine ; 

Unhoused to be, in the top of a tree, 
Was not so very fine ! 

At first he cowered and shivered, 

And then he ceased to sing. 
And then he spread about his head, 

One drenched and dripping wing. 

And stiffer winds at sunset, 

Began to beat and blow ; 
And next daylight the ground was 
white 

With a good inch-depth of snow ! 

And oh, for the foolish blackbird. 
That had n't a house for his head ! 

The bitter sleet began at his feet 
And chilled and killed him dead ! 

And the rabbit, when he saw him, 
Enrapt in his snowy shroud. 

Let drop his ears and said, with tears, 
" This comes of being proud." 



FAIRY-FOLK. 

The story-books have told you 

Of the fairy-folks so nice, 
That make them leathern aprons 

Of the ears of little mice ; 
And wear the leaves of roses. 

Like a cap upon their heads, 
And sleep at night on thistle-down. 

Instead of feather beds ! 

These stories, too, have told you, 

No doubt to your surprise, 
That the fairies ride in coaches 

That are drawn by butterflies ; 
And come into your chambers. 

When you are locked in dreams. 
And right across your counterpanes 

Make bold to drive their teams; 



176 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



And that they heap your pillows 
With their gifts of rings and pearls ; 

But do not heed such idle tales, 
My little boys and girls. 

There are no fairy-folk that ride 

About the world at night, 
Who give you rings and other things, 

To pay for doing right. 
But if you do to others what 

You 'd have them do to you, 
You '11 be as blest as if the best 

Of story-books were true. 



BURIED GOLD. 

In a little bird's-nest of a house, 
About the color of a mouse, 

And low, and quaint, and square — 
Twenty feet, perhaps, in all — 
With never a chamber nor a hall, 

There lived a queer old pair 
Once on a time. They are dead and 

gone ; 
But in their day their names were John 

And Emeline Adair. 

John used to sit and take his ease. 
With two great patches at his knees, 

And spectacles on his nose. 
With a bit of twine or other thread, 
That met behind his heavy head 

And tied the big brass bows. 

His jacket was a snuffy brown. 
His coat was just a farmer's gown. 

That once had been bright blue ; 
But the oldest man could hardly say 
When it was not less blue than gray. 
It was frayed and faded such a way. 

And both the elbows through ! 

But, somehow or other, Emeline 
Went dressed in silks and laces fine ; 

She was proud and high of head. 
And she used to go, and go, and go, 
Through mud and mire, and rain and 

snow, 
Visiting high and visiting low. 
As idle gossips will you know ; 
And many a thing that was n't so 

She told, the neighbors said. 

Amongst the rest that her husband John, 

Though his gown was poor to look upon. 

And his trowsers patched and old, 



Had money to spend, and money to 

spare. 
As sure as her name was Mrs. Adair j 
And though she said it, who say it 

should not, 
Somewhere back or front of their lot, 
He had buried her iron dinner-pot, 
A pewter pan, and she did n't know 

what 
Beside, chock-full of gold ! 

Well, by and by her tongue got still, 
That had clattered and clattered like a 

mill, 
Little for good, and a good deal for ill, 
Having all her life-time had her will — 

The poor old woman died : 
And John, when he missed the whirl 

and whir 
Of her goosey-gabble, refused to stir. 
But moped till he broke his heart for 

her ; 
And they laid him by her side. 

And lo ! his neighbors, young and old. 
Who had heard about the pot of gold 
Of which old Mrs. Adair had told. 

Got spades, and picks, and bars. 
You would have thought, had you seen 

them dig. 
Sage and simple, little and big, 
Up and down and across the lot. 
They expected not only to find the pot, 

And the pan, but the moon and stars ! 

Just one, and only one man stayed 
At home and plied an honest trade. 

Contented to be told 
How they digged down under the shed. 
And up and out through the turnip-bed, 
Turning every inch of tiie lot, 
And never finding sign of the pot 

That was buried full of gold ! 

And when ten years were come and 

gone, 
And poor old Emeline and John 

Had nearly been forgot, 
This careful, quiet man that stayed 
At home and plied an honest trade, 

Was the owner of the lot — 
Such luck to industry doth fall. 
And he built a house with a stately hal^ 
Full fifty feet from wall to wall : 

And the foolish ones were envious 
That he should be rewarded thus 
Upon the very spot 



POEMS FOR CHILDREN. 



177 



Where they had digged their strength 

away, 
Day and night, till their heads were 
gray, 
In search of the pan and pot 
Which Mrs. Emeline Adair 
Had made believe were buried there. 
As buried they were not. 



RECIPE FOR AN APPETITE. 

My lad, who sits at breakfast 
With forehead in a frown, 

Because the chop is under-done, 
And the fritter over-brown, — 

Just leave your dainty mincing. 
And take, to mend your fare, 

A slice of golden sunshine. 
And a cup of the morning air. 

And when you have eat and drunken, 

If you want a little fun. 
Throw by your jacket of broadcloth, 

And take an up-hill run. 

And what with one and the other 
You will be so strong and gay. 

That work will be only a pleasure 
Through all the rest of the day. 

And when it is time for supper, 
Your bread and milk will be 

As sweet as a comb of honey. 
Will you try my recipe ? 



THE PIG AND THE HEN. 

The pig and the hen. 

They both got in one pen, 
And the hen said she would n't go out. 

" Mistress Hen," says the pig, 

" Don"^ you be quite so big ! " 
And he gave her a push with his 
snout. 

" You are rough, and you 're fat, 
But who cares for all that ; 

I will stay if I choose," says the hen. 

"No, mistress, no longer ! " 
Says pig : " I 'm the stronger. 

And mean to be boss of my pen ! 



Then the hen cackled out 
Just as close to his snout 
As she dare : " You 're an ill-natured 
brute ; 
And if I had the corn, 
Just as sure as I 'm born, 
I would send you to starve or to 
root ! " 

" But you don't own the cribs ; 

So I think that my ribs 
Will be never the leaner for you : 

This trough is my trough. 

And the sooner you 're off," 
Says the pig, " why the better you '11 
do!" 

" You 're not a bit fair, 

And you 're cross as a bear : 
What harm do I do in your pen ? 

But a pig is a pig. 

And I don't care a fig 
For the worst you can say," says the hen. 

Says the pig, " You will care 

If I act like a bear 
And tear your two wings from your 
neck." 

" What a nice little pen 

You have got ! " says the hen. 
Beginning to scratch and to peck. 

Now the pig stood amazed. 

And the bristles, upraised 
A moment past, fell down so sleek. 

" Neighbor Biddy," says he, 

" If you '11 just allow me, 
I will show you a nice place to pick ! " 

So she followed him off. 
And they ate from one trough — 
They had quarreled for nothing, they 
saw ; 
And when they had fed, 
" Neighbor Hen," the pig said, 
" Won't you stay here and roost in my 
straw ? " 

" No, I thank you ; you see 

That I sleep in a tree," 
Says the hen ; " but I must go away ; 

So a grateful good-by." 

" Make your home in my sty," 
Says the pig, " and come in every 
day." 

Now my child will not miss 
The true moral of this 



178 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



Little story of anger and strife ; 

For a word spoken soft 

Will turn enemies oft 
Into friends that will stay friends for 
life. 



SPIDER AND FLY. 

Once when morn was flowing in, 

Broader, redder, wider. 
In her house with walls so thin 

That they could not hide her. 
Just as she would never spin, 

Sat a little spider — 
Sat she on her silver stairs, 
Meek as if she said her prayers. 

Came a fly, whose wings had been 

Making circles wider. 
Having but the buzz and din 

Of herself to guide her. 
Nearer to these walls so thin, 

Nearer to the spider. 
Sitting on her silver stairs, 
Meek as if she said her prayers. 

Said the silly fly, " Too long 

Malice has belied her ; 
How should she do any wrong, 

With no walls to hide her .!"' 
So she buzzed her pretty song 

To the wily spider. 
Sitting on her silver stairs 
Meek as though she said her prayers. 

But in spite her modest mien, 

Had the fly but eyed her 
Close enough, she would have seen 

Fame had not belied her — 
That, as she had always been, 

She was still a spider ; 
And that she was not at prayers. 
Sitting on her silver stairs. 



A LESSON OF MERCY. 

A BOY named Peter 
Found once in the road 

All harmless and helpless, 
A poor little toad ; 

And ran to his playmate, 
And all out of breath 



Cried, " John, come and help. 
And we '11 stone him to death ! " 

And picking up stones, 
The two went on the run. 

Saying, one to the other, 
" Oh won't we have fun ? " 

Thus primed and all ready, 
They 'd got nearly back, 

When a donkey came 

Dragging a cart on the track. 

Now the cart was as much 
As the donkey could draw. 

And he came with his head 
Hanging down ; so he saw. 

All harmless and helpless, 

The poor little toad, 
A-taking his morning nap 

Right in the road. 

He shivered at first. 

Then he drew back his leg, 
And set up his ears. 

Never moving a peg. 

Then he gave the poor toad. 
With his warm nose a dump, 

And he woke and got off 
With a hop and a jump. 

And then with an eye 

Turned on Peter and John, 

And hanging his homely head 
Down, he went on. 

" We can't kill him now, John," 

Says Peter, "that 's flat. 
In the face of an eye and 

An action like that ! " 

" For my part, I have n't 
The heart to," says John ; 

" But the load is too heavy 
That donkey has on : 

" Let 's help him ; " so both lads 

Set off with a will 
And came up with the cart 

At the foot of the hill. 

And when each a shoulder 

Had put to the wheel. 
They helped the poor donjtcy 

A wonderful deal. 



POEMS FOR CHILDREN. 



179 



When they got to the top 
Back again they both run, 

Agreeing they never 
Had had better fun. 



THE FLOWER SPIDER.i 

You 'VE read of a spider, I suppose, 
Dear children, or been told. 

That has a back as red as a rose. 
And legs as yellow as gold. 

Well, one of these fine creatures ran 
In a bed of flowers, you see, 

Until a drop of dew in the sun 
Was hardly as bright as she. 

Her two plump sides, they were be- 
sprent 

With speckles of all dyes, 
And little shimmering streaks were bent 

Like rainbows round her eyes. 

Well, when she saw her legs a-shine, 
And her back as red as a rose. 

She thought that she herself was fine 
Because she had fine clothes ! 

Then wild she grew, like one possessed. 
For she thought, upon my word, 

That she was n't a spider with the rest, 
And set up for a bird ! 

Aye, for a humming-bird at that ! 

And the summer day all through. 
With her head in a tulip-bell she sat. 

The same as the hum-birds do. 

She had her little foolish day, 
But her pride was doomed to fall, 

And what do you think she had to pay 
In the ending of it all ? 

Just this : on dew she could not sup. 
And she could not sup on pride, 

And so, with her head in the tulip cup, 
She starved until she died ! 

For in despite of the golden legs. 
And the back as red as a rose, 

With what is hatched from the spider's 
eggs 
The spider's nature goes .' 

' A spider that lives among flowers, and takes 
its color from them. 



DAN AND DIMPLE, AND HOW 
THEY QUARRELED. 

To begin in things quite simple 
Quarrels scarcely ever fail — 

And they fell out, Dan and Dimple, 
All about a horse's tail ! 

So that by and by the quarrel 

Quite broke up and spoiled their 
play ; 
Danny said the tail was sorrel. 

Dimple said that it was gray ! 

" Gray ! " said Danny, " you are sim- 
ple ! " 
"Just as gray as mother's shawl ! " 
" And that 's red ! " Said saucy Dim- 
ple, 
" You 're a fool, and that is all ! " 

Then the sister and the brother — 
As indeed they scarce could fail. 

In such anger, struck each other — 
All about the horse's tail ! 

"Red!" cried Dimple, speaking loudly, 
" How you play at fast and loose ! " 

" Yes," said Danny, still more proudly, 
" When I 'm playing with a goose ! " 

In between them came the mother : 
" What is all this fuss about ? " 

Then the sister and the brother 
Told the story, out and out. 

And she answered, " I must label 

Each of you a little dunce, 
Since to look into the stable 

Would have settled it at once ! " 

Forth ran Dan with Dimple after. 
And full soon came hurrying back 

Shouting, all aglee with laughter. 
That the horse's tail was black ! 

So they both agreed to profit 
By the lesson they had learned, 

And to tell each other of it 
Often as the fit returned. 



TO A HONEY-BEE. 

" Busy-body, busy-body, 
Always on the wing. 



i8o 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



Wait a bit, where you have lit, 
And tell me why you sing." 

Up, and in the air again, 

Flap, flap, flap ! 
And now she stops, and now she 
drops 

Into the rose's lap. 

" Come, just a minute come, 

From your rose so red." 
Hum, hum, hum, hum — 

That was all she said. 

Busy-body, busy-body. 

Always light and gay. 
It seems to me, for all I see. 

Your work is only play. 

And now the day is sinking to 

The goldenest of eves, 
And she doth creep for quiet sleep 

Among the lily-leaves. 

" Come, just a moment come, 

From your snowy bed." 
Hum, hum, hum, hum — 

That was all she said. 

But, the while I mused, I learned 

The secret of her way : 
Do my part with cheerful heart. 

And turn my work to play. 



AT THE TAVERN. 

" What 'll you have, John ? 

Cider or gin .>* 
Or something stronger ? 

Walk right in. 
Hurry up, landlord. 

With main and might. 
And don't make a thirsty man 

Wait all night ! 

" Not any cider ? 

And ale won't do. 
A brandy-smasher, then, 

Glasses for two ! 
And mind you, landlord, 

Mix it strong. 
And don't keep us waiting here 

All night long ! 

" Not any brandy ? 
Landlord, drum 



Something or other up. 

Got any rum ? 
Step about lively ! 

Hot and strong. 
And don't keep us waiting here 

All night long ! 

" Not any toddy ? 

Not the least little bit ? 
Whiskey and water, then, 

That must be it ! 
Step about, landlord. 

We 're all right. 
And don't make a thirsty man 

Wait all night ! " 

" What 's wrong now, John ? 

Come, sit down. 
Don't you like white sugar .'' 

Then have brown. 
And, landlord, hark ye. 

Cigars and a light. 
And don't keep us waiting here 

Quite all night ! " 

" What '11 I have, man ? 

The right, to be sure. 
To keep all the sense that 

God gave me secure ! 
The right to myself, man, 

And, in the next place, 
The right to look all 

Honest men in the face ! 

" So, waiter, you need not 

Be off on the run 
Till I 've countermanded 

All orders but one : 
No liquor, no sugar, 

Nor brown, nor yet white. 
And don't fetch cigars in. 

And don't fetch a light ! 

" We 're on our way home 

To our children and wives. 
And would n't stay plaguing them 

Not for our lives ; 
Fetch only the water. 

The rest is all wrong. 
We can't take the chances 

Of staying too long." 



WHAT A BIRD TAUGHT. 

• Why do you come to my apple-tree^ 
Little bird so gray t " 



POEMS FOR CHILDREN. 



I8I 



Twit-twit, twit-twit, twit-twit-twee ! 
That was all he would say. 

" Why do you lock your rosy feet 
So closely round the spray ?" 

Twit-twit, twit-twit, twit-tweet ! 
That was all he would say. 

" Why on the topmost bough do you 
get. 

Little bird so gray ?" 
Twit-twit-twee ! twit-twit-twit ! 

That was all he would say. 

" Where is your mate ? come answer me, 

Little bird so gray ? " 
Twit-twit-twit ! twit-twit-twee ! 

That was all he would say. 

" And has she little rosy feet ? 

And is her body gray ? " 
Twit-twit-twee ! twit-twit-twit ! 

That was all he would say. 

" And will she come with you and sit 
In my apple-tree some day ? " 

Twit-twit-twee ! twit-twit-twit ! 
He said as he flew away. 

" Twit-twit ! twit-twit ! twit ! tweet ! " 
Why, what in that should be 

To make it seem so very sweet .'' 
And then it came to me. 

This little wilding of the wood. 
With wing so gray and fleet, 

JDid just the best for you he could, 
And that is why 't was sweet. 



OLD MAXIMS. 

I THINK there are some maxims 

Under the sun. 
Scarce worth preservation ; 

But here, boys, is one 
So sound and so simple 

'T is worth while to know ; 
And all in the single line, 

" Hoe your own row ! " 

If you want to have riches. 
And want to have friends, 

J)on't trample the means down 
And look for the ends ; 

But always remember 
Wherever you go. 



The wisdom of practicing, 
" Hoe your own row ! " 

Don't just sit and pray 

For increase of your store, 
But work ; who will help himself, 

Heaven helps more. 
The weeds while you 're sleeping, 

Will come up and grow, 
But if you would have the 

Full ear, you must hoe ! 

Nor will it do only 

To hoe out the weeds. 
You must make your ground mellow 

And put in the seeds ; 
And when the young blade 

Pushes through, you must know 
There is nothing will strengthen 

Its growth like the hoe ! 

There 's no use of saying 

What will be, will be ; 
Once try it, my lack-brain. 

And see what you '11 see ! 
Why, just small potatoes. 

And few in a row ; 
You 'd better take hold then, 

And honestly hoe ! 

A good many workers 

1 've known in my time — 
Some builders of houses, 

Some builders of rhyme ; 
And they that were prospered, 

Were prospered, I know. 
By the intent and meaning of 

" Hoe your own row ! " 

I 've known, too, a good many 

Idlers, who said, 
" I 've right to my living, 

The world owes me bread ! " 
A right ! lazy lubber ! 

A thousand times No ! 
'T is his, and his only. 

Who hoes his own row. 



PETER GREY. 

Honest little Peter Grey 

Keeps at work the livelong day, 
For his mother is as poor as a mouse ; 

Now running up and down 

Doing errands in the town, 
And now doing chores about the house. 



l82 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



The boys along the street 

Often call him Hungry Pete, 
Because that his face is so pale ; 

And ask, by way of jest, 

If his ragged coat and vest 
And his old-fashioned hat are for sale. 

But little Peter Grey 

Never any shape nor way 
Doth evil for evil return ; 

He is finer than his clothes. 

And no matter where he goes 
There is some one the fact to discern. 

You might think a sneer, mayhap. 

Just a feather in your cap, 
If you saw him being pushed to the wall ; 

But my proudly-foolish friend, 

You might find out in the end 
You had sneered at your betters, after 
all. 

He is climbing up his way 

On life's ladder day by day ; 
And you who, to laugh at him, stop 

On the lower rounds, will wake, 

If I do not much mistake, 
To find him sitting snug at the top. 



A SERMON 

FOR YOUNG FOLKS. 

Don't ever go hunting for pleasures — 
They cannot be found thus I know ; 

Nor yet fall a-digging for treasures. 
Unless with the spade and the hoe ! 

The bee has to work for the honey, 
The drone has no right to the food. 

And he who has not earned his money 
Will get out of his money no good. 

The ant builds her house with her la- 
bor, 

The squirrel looks out for his mast, 
And he who depends on his neighbor 

Will never have friends, first or last. 

In short, 't is no better than thieving, 
Though thief \% a harsh name to call ; 

Good things to be always receiving. 
And never to give back at all. 

(^nd do not put off till to-morrow 
The thing that you ought to do now, 



But first set the share in the furrow. 
And then set your hand to the plough. 

The time is too short to be waiting, 
The day maketh haste to the night, 

And it 's just as hard work to be hating 
Your work as to do it outright. 

Know this, too, before you are older, 
And all the fresh morning is gone. 

Who puts to the world's wheel a shouU 
der 
Is he that will move the world on ! 

Don't weary out with delaying, 
And when you are crowded, don't 
stop ; 

Believe me there 's truth in the saying : 
" There always is room at the top." 

To conscience be true, and to man true, 
Keep faith, hope, and love, in your 
breast. 

And when you have done all you can do, 
Why, then you may trust for the rest. 



TELLING FORTUNES. 

" Be not among wine-bibbers ; among riotous 
eaters of flesh ; for the drunkard and the glutton 
shall come to poverty : and drowsiness shall clothe 
a man with rags." — Prov. xxiii. 20, 21. 

I 'll tell you two fortunes, my fine little 
lad, 
For you to accept or refuse. 
The one of them good, and the other 
one bad ; 
Now hear them, and say which you 
choose ! 

I see by my gift, within reach of your 
hand, 
A fortune right fair to behold ; 
A house and a hundred good acres of 
land, 
With harvest fields yellow as gold. 

I see a great orchard, the boughs hang- 
ing down 
With apples of russet and red ; 
I see droves of cattle, some white and 
some brown. 
But all of them sleek and well-fed. 

I see doves and swallows about the 
barn doors. 
See the fanning-mill whirling so fasti 



POEMS FOR CHILDREN. 



183 



See men that are threshing the wheat 
on the floors ; 
And now the bright picture is past ! 

And I see, rising dismally up in the 

place 

Of the beautiful house and the land, 

A man with a fire-red nose on his 

face. 

And a little brown jug in his hand ! 

Oh ! if you beheld him, my lad, you 
would wish 
That he were less wretched to see ; 
For his boot-toes, they gape like the 
mouth of a fish. 
And his trousers are out at the knee ! 

In walking he staggers, now this way, 
now that, 
And his eyes they stand out like a 
bug's, 
And he wears an old coat and a bat- 
tered-in hat. 
And I think that the fault is the jug's ! 

For our text says the drunkard shall 
come to be poor. 
And drowsiness clothes men with 
rags; 
And he does n't look much like a man, 
I am sure. 
Who has honest hard cash in his bags. 

Now which will you choose ? to be thrifty 
and snug, 
And to be right side up with your 
dish ; 
Or to go with your eyes like the eyes of 
a bug, 
And your shoes like the mouth of a 
fish! 



I THE WISE FAIRY. 

Once, in a rough, wild country, 
On the other side of the sea. 

There lived a dear little fairy, 
And her home was in a tree. 

A dear little, queer little fairy, 
And as rich as she could be. 

To northwd^rd and to southward, 
She could overlook the land. 

And that was why she had her house 
In a tree, you understand. 



For she was the friend of the friend- 
less, 
And her heart was in her hand. 

And when she saw poor women 

Patiently, day by day. 
Spinning, spinning, and spinning 

Their lonesome lives away. 
She would hide in the flax of their dis* 
taffs 

A lump of gold, they say. 

And when she saw poor ditchers, 

Knee-deep in some wet dyke, 
Digging, digging, and digging. 
To their very graves, belike, 
She would hide a shining lump of 
gold 
Where their spades would be sure to 
strike. 

And when she saw poor children 
Their goats from the pastures take. 

Or saw them milking and milking, 
Till their arms were ready to break. 

What a plashing in their milking-pails 
Her gifts of gold would make ! 

Sometimes in the night, a fisher 
Would hear her sweet low call. 

And all at once a salmon of gold 
Right out of his net would fall ; 

But what I have to tell you 
Is the strangest thing of all. 

If any ditcher, or fisher. 

Or child, or spinner old, 
Bought shoes for his feet, or bread to 
eat. 

Or a coat to keep from the cold, 
The gift of the good old fairy 

Was always trusty gold. 

But if a ditcher, or fisher, 

Or spinner, or child so gay, 
Bought jewels, or wine, or silks so 
fine, 

Or staked his pleasure at play, 
The fairy's gold in his very hold 

Would turn to a lump of clay. 

So, by and by the people 

Got open their stupid eyes : 
" We must learn to spend to some good 
end," 

They said, " if we are wise ; 
'T is not in the gold we waste or hold, 

That a golden blessing lies." 



1 84 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



A CHILD'S WISDOM. 

When the cares of day are ended, 
And I take my evening rest, 

Of the windows of my chamber 
This is that I love the best ; 

This one facing to the hill-tops 
And the orchards of the west. 

All the woodlands, dim and dusky, 
All the fields of waving grain. 

All the valleys sprinkled over 
With the drops of sunlit rain, 

I can see them through the twilight, 
Sitting here beside my pane. 

I can see the hilly places. 

With the sheep-paths trod across ; 
See the fountains by the waysides. 

Each one in her house of moss, 
Holding up the mist above her 

Like a skein of silken floss. 

Garden corners bright with roses. 
Garden borders set with mint, 

Garden beds, wherein the maidens 
Sow their seeds, as love doth hint. 

To some rhyme of mystic charming 
That shall come back all in print. 

Ah ! with what a world of blushes 
Then they read it through and 
through, 

Weeding out the tangled sentence 
From the commas of the dew : 

Little ladies, choose ye wisely. 
Lest some day the choice ye rue. 

I can see a troop of children, 
Merry-hearted boys and girls. 

Eyes of light and eyes of darkness, 
Feet of coral, legs of pearls, 

Racing toward the morning school-house 
Half a head before their curls. 

One from all the rest I single, 
Not for brighter mouth or eyes. 

Not for being sweet and simple, 
Not for being sage and wise : 

With my whole full heart I loved him, 
And therein my secret lies. 

Cheeks as brown as sun could kiss 
them, 

All in careless homespun dressed, 
Eager for the romp or wrestle, 

Just a rustic with the rest : 



Who shall say what love is made of ? 
'T is enough I loved him best. 

Haply, Effie loved me better — 

She with arms so lily fair. 
In her sadness, in her gladness, 

Stealing round me unaware ; 
Dusky shadows of the cairngorms 

All among her golden hair. 

Haply, so did wilful Annie, 

With the tender eyes and mouth, 

And the languors and the angers 
Of her birth-land of the South : 

Still my darling was my darling — 
" I can love," I said, " for both." 

So I left the pleasure-places. 
Gayest, gladdest, best of all — 

Hedge-row mazes, lanes of daisies, 
Bluebirds' twitter, blackbirds' call — 

For the robbing of the crow's nest, 
For the games of race and ball. 

So I left my book of poems 
Lying in the hawthorn's shade, 

Milky flowers sometimes for hours 
Drifting down the page unread. 

" He was found a better poet ; 
I will read with him," I said. 

Thus he led me, hither, thither. 
To his young heart's wild content. 

Where so surly and so curly, 

With his black horns round him ben^ 

Fed the ram that ruled the meadow — 
For where'er he called I went : 

Where the old oak, black and blasted, 
Trembled on his knotty knees. 

Where the nettle teased the cattle, 
Where the wild crab-apple trees 

Blushed with bitter fruit to mock us ; 

^ 'T was not I that was to please : 

Where the ox, with horn for pushing, 
Chafed within his prison stall ; 

Where the long-leaved poison-ivy 
Clambered up the broken wall : 

Ah ! no matter, still I loved him 
First and last and best of all. 

When before the frowning master 
Late and lagging in we came, 

I would stand up straight before him, 
And would take my even blame : 

Ah ! my darling was my darling ; 
Good or bad 't was all the same. 



POEMS FOR CHILDREN. 



185 



One day, when the lowering storm- 
cloud 

South and east began to frown, 
Flat along the waves of grasses, 

Like a swimmer, he lay down, 
With his head propped up and resting 

On his two arms strong and brown. 

On the sloping ridge behind us 

Shone the yet ungarnered sheaves ; 

Round about us ran the shadows 
Of the overhanging leaves, 

Rustling in the wind as softly 
As a lady's silken sleeves. 

Where a sudden notch before us 

Made a gateway in the hill, 
And a sense of desolation 

Seemed the very air to fill, 
There beneath the weeping willows 

Lay the grave-yard, hushed and still. 

Pointing over to the shoulders 

Of the head-stones, white and high. 

Said I, in his bright face looking, 
" Think you you shall ever lie 

\s\ among those weeping willows ? " 
" No ! " he said, " I cannot die ! " 



" Cannot die ? my little darling, 
'T is the way we all must go ! " 

Then the bold bright spirit in hitn 
Settling all his cheek aglow, 

He repeated still the answer, 
" I shall never die, I know ! " 

" Wait and think. On yonder hill-side 
There are graves as short as you. 

Death is strong." — " But He who made 
Death 
Is as strong, and stronger too. 

Death may take me, God will wake me, 
And will make me live anew." 

Since we sat within the elm shade 
Talking as the storm came on. 

Many a blessed hope has vanished, 
Many a year has come and gone ; 

But that simple, sweet believing 
Is the staff I lean upon. 

From my arms, so closely clasping, 

Long ago my darling fled ; 
Morning brightness makes no lightness 

In the darkness where I tread : 
He is lost, and I am lonely. 

But I know he is not dead. 




,y~^^::^-t^ C^dt- 




PHCEBE GARY'S POEMS. 



BALLADS 



NARRATIVE POEMS. 



DOVECOTE MILL. 

THE HOMESTEAD. 

From the old Squire's dwelling, gloomy 

and grand, 
Stretching away on either hand. 
Lie fields of broad and fertile land. 

Acres on acres everywhere 
The looking of smiling plenty wear, 
That tells of the master's thoughtful 
care. 

Here blossoms the clover, white and 

red, 
Here the heavy oats in a tangle spread ; 
And the millet lifts her golden head. 

And, ripening, closely neighbored by 
Fields of barley and pale white rye, 
The yellow wheat grows strong and 
high. 

And near, untried through the summer 

days. 
Lifting their spears in the sun's fierce 

blaze, 
Stand the bearded ranks of the maize. 

Straying over the side of the hill, 
Here the sheep run to and fro at will, 
Nibbling of short green grass their 

fill. 

Sleek cows down the pasture take their 

ways, 
Or lie in the shade through the sultry 

days. 
Idle, and too full-fed to graze. 

Ah, you might wander far and wide, 
Nor find a spot in the country side, 
So fair to see as our valley's pride ! 



How, just beyond, if it will not tire 
Your feet to climb this green knoll 

higher. 
We can see the pretty village spire ; 

And, mystic haunt of the whip-poor-wills. 
The wood, that all the background fills, 
Crowning the tops to the mill-creek 
hills. 

There, miles away, like a faint blue line. 
Whenever the day is clear and fine 
You can see the track of a river shine. 

Near it a city hides unseen. 

Shut close the verdant hills between, 

As an acorn set in its cup of green. 

And right beneath, at the foot of the hill, 
The little creek flows swift and still. 
That turns the wheel of Dovecote Mill. 

Nearer the grand old house one sees 
Fair rows of thrifty apple-trees. 
And tall straight pears, o'ertopping 
these. 

And down at the foot of the garden, low, 
On a rustic bench, a pretty show, 
White bee-hives, standing in a row. 

Here trimmed in sprigs with blossoms, 

each 
Of the little bees in easy reach, 
Hang the boughs of the plum and peach. 

At the garden's head are poplars, tall. 
And peacocks, making their harsh loud 

call. 
Sun themselves all day on the wall. 

And here you will find on every hand 
Walks, and fountains, and statues grand, 
And trees from many a foreign land. 



igo 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE GARY. 



And flowers, that only the learned can 

name, 
Here glow and burn like a gorgeous 

flame, 
Putting the poor man's blooms to shame. 

Far away from their native air 

The Norway pines their green dress 

wear ; 
And larches swing their long loose hair. 

Near the porch grows the broad catalpa 

tree 
And o'er it the grand wistaria, 
Born to the purple of royalty. 

There looking the same for a weary 

while, — 
'Twas built in this heavy, gloomy 

style, — 
Stands the mansion, a grand old pile. 

Always closed, as it is to-day, 

And the proud Squire, so the neighbors 

say. 
Frowns each unwelcome guest away. 

Though some who knew him long ago. 
If you ask, will shake their heads of 

snow. 
And tell you he was not always so, 

Though grave and quiet at any time, — 
But that now, his head in manhood's 

prime, 
Is growing white as the winter's rime. 

THE gardener's HOME. 

Well, you have seen it — a tempting 

spot ! 
Now come with me through the orchard 

plot 
And down the lane to the gardener's cot. 

Look where it hides almost unseen. 
And peeps the sheltering vines between. 
Like a white flower out of a bush of 
green. 

Cosy as nest of a bird inside, 
Here is no room for show or pride. 
And the open door swings free and wide. 

Across the well-worn stepping-stone. 
With sweet ground-ivy half o'ergrown, 
You may pass, as if the house were 
your own. 



You are welcome here to come or stay. 
For all the host has enough to say ; 
And the good-wife smiles in a pleasant 
way. 

'T is a pretty place to see in the time, 
When the vines in bloom o'er the rude 

walls climb. 
And Nature laughs in her joyful prime 

Bordered by roses, early and late, 

A narrow graveled walk leads straight 

Up to the door from the rustic gate. 

Here the lilac flings her perfume wide, 
And the sweet-brier, up to the lattice 

tied. 
Seems trying to push herself inside. 

A little off to the right, one sees 
Some black and sturdy walnut-trees, 
And locusts, whose white flowers scent 
the breeze. 

And the Dovecote Mill stands just be- 
yond. 

With its dull red walls, and the droning 
sound 

Of the slow wheel, turning round and 
round. 

Here the full creek rushes noisily, 
Though oft in summer it runs half dry, 
And its song is only a lullaby. 

But the prettiest sight when all is done. 
That the eye or mind can rest upon, 
Or in the house or out in the sun ; — 

And whatever beside you may have met, 
The picture you will not soon forget, — 
Is little Bethy, the gardener's pet. 

Ever his honest laughing eyes 
Beam with a new and glad surprise, 
At the wit of her childish, quaint replies. 

While the mother seems with a love 

more deep 
To guard her always, awake or asleep, 
As one with a sacred trust to keep. 

Here in the square room, parlor and 

hall. 
Stand the stiff-backed chairs against 

the wall. 
And the clock in the corner, straight 

and tall. 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



191 



Ranged on the cupboard shelf in sight, 
Glistens the china, snowy white, 
And the spoons and platters, burnished 
bright. 

Oft will a bird, or a butterfly dare 

To venture in through the window, 

bare. 
And opened wide for the summer air. 

And sitting near it you may feel 

Faint scent of herbs from the garden 

steal, 
And catch the sound of the miller's 

wheel. 

With wife and child, and his plot to 

till. 
Here the gardener lives contented 

still, 
Let the world outside go on as it will. 



THE MILL. 

With cobwebs and dust on the window 

spread, 
On the walls and the rafters overhead. 
Rises the old mill, rusty red. 

Grim as the man who calls it his own. 
Outside, from the gray foundation stone 
To the roof with spongy moss o'er- 
grown. 

Through a loop-hole made in the gable 

high, 
In and out like arrows fly 
The slender swallows, swift and shy. 

And with bosoms purple, brown, and 

white, 
Along the eaves, in the shimmering 

light, 
Sits a row of doves from morn till 

night. 

Less quiet far is the place within, 
Where the falling meal o'erruns the 

bin, 
And you hear the busy stir and din. 

Grave is the miller's mien and pace. 
But his boy, vvith ruddy, laughing face. 
Is good to see in this sombre place. 

And little Bethy will say to you. 
That he is good and brave and true, 
A.nd the wisest boy you ever knew ! 



"Why Robert," she says, "was never 

heard 
To speak a cross or a wicked word, 
And he would n't injure even a bird ! " 

And he, with boyish love and pride, 
Ever since she could walk by his side. 
Has been her playmate and her guide. 

For he Hved in the world three years 

before 
Bethy her baby beauty wore ; 
And is taller than she by a head or 

more. 

Up the plank and over the sill. 
In and out at their childish will, 
They played about the old red mill. 

They watched the mice through the 

corn-sacks steal. 
The steady shower of the snowy meal, 
And the water falling over the wheel. 

They loved to stray in the garden walks, 

Bordered by stately hollyhocks 

And pinks and odorous marigold stalks. 

Where liHes and tulips stood in line 
By the candytuft and the columbine, 
And lady-grass, like a ribbon fine. 

Where the daffodil wore her golden 

lace. 
And the prince's-feather blushed in the 

face, 
And the cockscomb looked as vain as 

his race. 

And here, as gay as the birds in the 

bowers. 
Our children lived through their life's 

first hours. 
And grew till their heads o'ertopped 

the flowers. 



SUGAR-MAKING. 

Swiftly onward the seasons flew. 
And enough to see and enough to do 
Our children found the long year 
through. 

They played in the hay when the fields 

were mowed, 
With the sun-burnt harvesters they 

rode 
Home to the barn a-top of the load. 



192 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE GARY. 



When her fragrant fruit the orchard 

shed, 
They helped to gather the apples spread 
On the soft grass — yellow, russet, and 

red. 

Down hill in winter they used to slide, 
And over the frozen mill-creek glide, 
Or play by the great bright fire inside 

The house ; or sit in the chimney nook, 
Pleased for the hundredth time to look 
Over the self-same picture-book. 

Castles, and men of snow they made, 
And fed with crumbs the robins, that 

stayed 
Near the house — half tame, and half 

afraid. 

So ever the winter-time flew fast. 

And after the cold short months were 

past 
Came the sugar-making on at last. 

*Twas just ere the old folks used to 

say, 
" Now the oaks are turning gray, 
'T is time for the farmer to plant 

away ! " 

Before the early bluebird was there ; 
Or down by the brook the willow fair 
Loosed to the winds her yellow hair. 

Ah ! then there was life and fun enough. 
In making the "spile" and setting the 

trough. 
And all, till the time of the "stirring 

off." 

They followed the sturdy hired man. 
With his brawny arms and face of tan, 
Who gathered the sap each day as it 
ran, 

And they thought it a very funny 

sight, 
The yoke that he wore, like " Buck and 

Bright," 
Across his shoulders, broad, upright. 

They watched the fires, with awe pro- 
found, 

Go lapping the great black kettles 
round, 

A.nd out the chimney, with rushing 
sound. 



They loved the noise of the brook, that 

slid 
Swift under its icy, broken lid, 
And they knew where that delicate 

flower was hid. 

That first in March her head upheaves ; 
And they found the tender " adam-and- 

eves " 
Beneath their bower of glossy leaves. 

They gathered spice-wood and ginseng 

roots. 
And the boy could fashion whistles and 

flutes 
Out of the pawpaw and walnut shoots. 

So every season its pleasure found ; 

Though the children never strayed be- 
yond 

The dear old hills that hemmed them 
round. 



THE PLAYMATES. 

Behind the cottage the mill-creek 

flowed. 
And before it, white and winding, 

showed 
The narrow track of the winter road, 

The creek when low, showed a sandy 

floor, 
And many a green old sycamore 
Threw its shade in summer from shore 

to shore. 

And just a quiet country lane. 

Fringed close by fields of grass and 

grain. 
Was the crooked road that crossed the 

plain. 

Out of the fragrant fennel's bed 

On its bank, the purple iron-weed spread 

Her broad top over the mullein's head. 

Off through the straggling town it 

wound. 
Then led you down to beech-wood, 

pond. 
And up to the school-house, just be« 

yond. 

Not far away was a wood's deep shade 
Where, larger grown, the boy and maid. 
Searching for flowers and berrie% 
strayed, 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



193 



And oft they went the field-paths 

through, 
Where all the things she liked he knew, 
And the very places where they grew. 

The hidden nook where Nature set 

The wind-flower and the violet, 

A.nd the mountain-fringe in hollows wet. 

The solomon's-seal, of gold so fine, 
And the king-cup, holding its dewy wine 
Up to the crowned dandelion. 

He gathered the ripe nuts in the fall, 
And berries that grew by fence and 

wall 
So high she could not reach them at all. 

The fruit of the hawthorn, black and 
red, 

Wild grapes, and the hijj that came in- 
stead. 

Of the sweet wild roses, faded and dead. 

Then the curious ways of birds he knew. 
And where they lived the season 

through, 
And how they built, and sang, and flew. 

Sometimes the boughs he bended down, 
And Bethy counted with eyes that shone. 
Eggs, white and speckled, blue and 
brown. 

And oft they watched with wondering 

eye 
The swallows, up on the rafters high 
Teaching their timid young to fly. 

For many a dull and rainy day 
They wiled the hours till night away 
Up in the mow on the scented hay. 

And many a dress was soiled and torn 
In climbing about the dusty barn 
And up to the lofts of wheat and corn. 

For they loved to hear on the roof, the 

rain. 
And to count the bins, again and again. 
Heaped with their treasures of golden 

grain. 

They played with the maize's sword like 

leaves. 
And tossed the rye and the oaten 

sheaves. 
In autumn piled to the very eaves. 



They peeped in the stalls where the cat- 
tle fed. 

They fixed their swing to the beam 
o'erhead, — 

Turned the wind-mill, huge, and round, 
and red. 

And the treasure of treasures, the pet 

and toy, 
The source alike of his care and joy, 
Was the timid girl to the brave bright 

boy 

When they went to school, her hand he 

took. 
Led her, and helped her over stile and 

brook, 
And carried her basket, slate, and book. 

And he was a scholar, if Bethy said 

true, 
The hardest book he could read right 

through, 
And there was n't a " sum " that he 

could n't "do ! " 

Oh, youth, whatever we lose or secure, 
One good we can all keep safe and sure. 
Who remember a childhood, happy and 
pure ! 

And hard indeed must a man be made, 
By the toil and traffic of gain and trade, 
Who loves not the spot where a boy he 
played. 

And I pity that woman, or grave or 

gay. 
Who keeps not fresh in her heart alway 
The tender dreams of her life's young 

day ! 

THE SCHOOL. 

Swiftly the seasons sped away. 

And soon to our children came the day 

When their life had work as well as play. 

When they trudged each morn to the 

school-house set 
Where the winter road and the highway 

met — 
Ah ! how plainly I see it yet ! 

With its noisy play-ground trampled 

so 
By the quick feet, running to and fro, 
That not a blade of grass could grow. 



194 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE GARY. 1 



And the maple-grove across the road, 
The hollow where the cool spring flowed, 
And greenly the mint and calamus 
showed. 

And the house — unpainted, dingy, low, 
Shielded a little from sun and snow. 
By its three stiff locusts, in a row. 

I can see the floor, all dusty and bare, 
The benches hacked, the drawings rare 
On the walls, and the master's desk and 
chair : 

And himself, not withered, cross, and 

grim, 
But a youth, well-favored, shy, and slim ; 
More awed by the girls than they by him. 

With a poet's eye and a lover's voice. 
Unused to the ways of rustic boys, 
And shrinking from all rude speech and 
noise. 

Where is he "i Where should we find 

again 
The children who played together there ? 
If alive, sad women and thoughtful men : 

Where now is Eleanor proud and fine .-* 
And where is dark-eyed Angivine, 
Rebecca, Annie, and Caroline .' 

And timid Lucy with pale gold hair, 
And soft brown eyes that unaware 
Drew your heart to her, and held it 
there ? 

There was blushing Rose, the beauty 

and pride 
Of her home, and all the country side ; 
She was the first we loved who died. 

And the joy and pride of our life's 

young years. 
The one we loved without doubts or 

fears, 
Alas ! to-day he is named with tears. 

And Alice, with quiet, thoughtful way 
Yet joining always in fun and play, 
God knows she is changed enough to- 
day ! 

I think of the boy no father claimed, 
Of him, a fall from the swing had lamed. 
And the girl whose hand in the mill was 
maimed. 



And the lad too sick and sad to play, 
Who ceased to come to school one 

day. 
And on the next he had passed away. 

And I know the look the master wore 
When he told us our mate of the day 

before 
Would never be with us any more ! 

And how on a grassy slope he was laid— 
We could see the place from where we 

played — 
A sight to make young hearts afraid. 

Sometimes we went by two and three, 
And read on his tombstone thoughtful- 

" As I am now so you must be." 

Brothers with brothers fighting, slain, 
From out those school-boys some have 

lain 
Their bones to bleach on the battle- 
plain. 

Some have wandered o'er lands and 

seas, 
Some haply sit in families. 
With children's children on their knees. 

Some may have gone in sin astray, 
Many asleep by their kindred lay. 
Dust to dust, till the judgment day ! 

YOUTH AND MAIDEN. 

A half score years have sped away 
Since Robert and Bethy used to play 
About the yard and the mill, all day. 

For time must go, whatever we do ; 
And the boy as it went, to manhood 

grew. 
Steady and honest, good and true. 

Going on with the mill, when his father 

died ; 
He lived untempted there, untried, 
Knowing little of life beside. 

Striving not to be rich or great, 
Never cjuestioning fortune or fate, 
Contented slowly to earn, and wait. 

Doing the work that was near his hanc^ 
Still of Bethy he thought and planned, 
To him the flower of all the land. 



BALLADS AND lYARRATIVE POEMS. 



195 



And tall shy Bethy more quiet seems, 
With a tencfcrer light her soft eye beams, 
And her thoughts are vague as the 
dream of dreams. 

Oft she sings in an undertone 
Of fears and sorrows not her own, — 
The pains that love-lorn maids have 
known. 

Does she think as she breathes the 

tender sigh. 
Of the lover that 's coming, by and by ? 
If she will not tell you, how should I .'' 

And when she walks in the evening 

bland 
Over the rich Squire's pleasant land. 
Does she long to be a lady, grand, 

And to have her fingers, soft and white, 
Lie in her lap, with jewels bright. 
And with never a task from morn till 
night > 

Often, walking about the place, 

With bended head and thoughtful face, 

She meets the owner face to face. 

Sometimes he eyes her wistfully, 
As, blushing with rustic modesty. 
She drops him a pretty courtesy. 

And looks as if inclined to say 
Some friendly word to bid her stay, 
Then, silent, turns abrupt away. 

And though to speak she never dares, 
She is sad to think that no one cares 
For the lonely man, with thin gray hairs. 

The good-wife, just as the girl was 

grown. 
Went from the places she had known, 
And the gardener and Bethy live alone. 

THE COUNTRY GRAVE-YARD. , , 1 .u r ■ 1 

And carved there for memorial. 
So she goes sometimes past Dovecote / Half hid by the willow branches' fall, 



And some, their very names forgot, 
Not even a stone to mark the spot. 
Yet sleep in peace ; so it matters not ! 

Here lieth one, who shouldered his 

gun. 

When the news was brought from Lex- 
ington ; 

And laid it down, when peace was won. 

Still he wore his coat of " army blue," 
Silver buckles on knee and shoe. 
And sometimes even his good sword, 
too. 

For however the world might change or 

gaze. 
He kept his ancient dress and ways. 
Nor learned the fashion of modern 

days. 

But here he had laid aside his staff, 
And you read half-worn, and guessed it 

half 
His quaint and self-made epitaph, — 

" Stoop down, my friends, and view his 

dust 
Who turned out one among the first 
To secure the rights you hold in trust. 

" Support the Constitution, plain ! 
By being united we form the chain 
That binds the tyrant o'er the main ! " 

Here from the good dead shut away 
By a dismal paling, broken and gray, 
Down in the lonesomest corner lay, 

A baby, dead in its life's first spring. 
And its hapless mother, a fair sad things 
Who never wore a wedding ring ! 

Often the maiden's steps are led 

Away to a lonely, grassy bed, 

With a marble headstone at its head : 



Mill, 
To the place of humble graves on the 

hill. 
Where the mother rests in the shadows 

still. 

Here, sleeping well as the sons of fame, 
Lie youth and maiden, sire and dame> 
With never a record but their name. 



The one word, " Mercy," that is all. 

Whether her life had praise or blame, 
All that was told was just the same, 
She was a woman, this her name. 

What beside there was naught to show, 
Though always Bethy longed to know 
The story of her who slept below. 



196 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE CARV. 



What had she been ere she joined the 

dead ; — 
Was she bowed with years, or young 

instead ; 
Was she a maiden, or was she wed ? 

Never another footstep here 
But the maiden's seemed to come a-near, 
Yet flowers were blooming from year to 
year. 

Something, whether of good or harm, 
Down to the dead one, like a charm 
Drew the living heart, fresh and warm ; 

Yet haunts more cheerful our Bethy 

had, 
For youth loves not the things that are 

sad, 
But turns to the hopeful and the glad. 

Though somehow she has grown more 

shy, 
More silent than in days gone by, 
Whenever the tall young miller is nigh. 

As they walk together, grave and slow, 
No longer hand in hand they go : 
Who can tell what has changed them 
so ? 

Till the sea shall cease to kiss the shore, 
Till men and maidens shall be no more, 
'T is the same old story, o'er and o'er. 

Secret hoping, and secret fears, 
Blushing and sighing, smiles and tears. 
The charm and the glory of life's young 
years ! 



Now in the waning autumn days 
The dull red sun, with lurid blaze, 
Shines through the soft and smoky haze. 

Fallen across the garden bed. 
Many a flower that reared its head 
Proudly in summer, lies stiff and dead. 

The pinks and roses have ceased to blow, 
The foxgloves stand in a long black row, 
And the daffodils perished long ago. 

Now the poplar rears his yellow spire, 
The maple lights his funeral pyre, 
A.nd the dog-wood burns like a bush of 
fire. 



The harvest fields are bare again, 
The barns are filled to the full with grain, 
And the orchard trees of their load 
complain. 

Huge sacks of corn o'er the floor are 

strewn, 
And Dovecote Mill grinds on and on, 
And the miller's work seems never done. 

But now 't is the Sabbath eve, and still 
For a little while is the noisy mill. 
And Robert is free to go where he will. 

But think or do whatever he may. 
The face of Bethy he sees ahvay 
Just as she looked in the choir to-day. 

And as his thoughts the picture paint, 
The hope within his heart grows faint, 
As it might before a passionless saint. 

Looking away from the book on her 

knees. 
Pretty Bethy at sunset sees 
Some one under the sycamore trees, 

Walking and musing slow, apart ; — 
But why should the blood with sudden 

start. 
Leap to her cheek from her foolish 

heart .'' 

Oh, if he came now, and if he spake. 
What answer should she, could she 

make ? 
This was the way her thought would 

take. 

Now, troubled maid on the cottage sill. 
Be wise, and keep your pulses still. 
He has turned, he is coming up the hill ! 

How he spake, or she made reply, 
How she came oij his breast to lie. 
She could not tell you better than I. 

But when the stars came out in the skies 
He has told his love, in whispered sighs, 
And she has answered, with downcast 
eyes. 

For somehow, since the world went 

round, 
For men who are simple, or men pro 

found. 
Hath a time and a way to woo bee* 

found. 




" Pretty Bethy at sunset sees 
Some one under tlie svcnmore trees."' P.njje iq6. 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



197 



And maids, for a thousand, thousand 

years, 
With trusting hopes, or trembling fears 
Have answered blushing through smiles 

and tears. 

And why should these two lovers have 

more 
Of thoughtless folly or wisdom's lore 
Than all the world who have lived be- 
fore ? 

Nay, she gives her hand to him who won 
Her heart, and she says, when this is 

done, 
There is no other under the sun 

Could be to her vifhat he hath been ; 
For he to her girlish fancy then 
Was the only man in the world of men- 
She is ready to take his hand and name. 
For better or worse, for honor or 

blame ; — 
God grant it may alway be the same. 

PLIGHTED. 

Oh, the tender joy of those autumn hours. 
When fancy clothed with spring the 

bovvers, 
And the dead leaves under the feet 

seemed flowers ! 

Oh, the blessed, blessed days of youth, 
When the heart is filled with gentle ruth, 
And lovers take their dreams for truth. 

Oh, the hopes they had, and the plans 

they planned, 
The man and the maid, as hand in hand. 
They walked in a fair, enchanted land ! 

Marred with no jealousy, fear, or doubt, 
At worst, but a little pet or pout. 
Just for the " making up," no doubt ! 

Have I said how looked our wood 

nymph, wild ? 
And how in these days she always 

smiled. 
Guileless and glad as a little child ? 

Her voice had a tender pleading tone, 
Siie was just a rose-bud, ahnost grown 
And before its leaves are fuliy blown. 

Graceful and tall as a lily fair, 



The peach lent the bloom to her blushes 
rare. 

And the thrush the brown of her rip- 
pling hair. 

Colored with violet, blue were her eyes. 
Stolen from the breeze her gentle sighs, 
And her soul was borrowed from the 
skies. 

And you, if a man, could hardly fail. 
If you saw her tripping down the dale. 
To think her a Princess of fairy tale ; 

Doomed for a time by charm or spell. 
Deep in some lonely, haunted dell. 
With mischief-loving elves to dwell. 

Or bound for a season, body and soul, 
Underneath a great green knoll. 
To live alone with a wicked Troll. 

You would have feared her form so slight 
Would vanish into the air or light. 
Or sudden, sink in the earth from sight. 

And you must have looked, and longed 

to see 
The handsome Prince who should set 

her free 
Come riding his good steed gallantly. 

Just as fair as the good year's prime, 
To our lovers was the cold and rime, 
For their bright lives had no winter- 
time. 

The drifts might pile, and the winds 

might blow, 
Still, up from the mill to the cottage, 

low, 
There was a straight path cut through 

the snow. 

And it only added another charm 

To the cheerful hearth, secure and 

warm. 
To hear on the roof and pane, the storm. 

Sometimes Bcthy would lightly say, 

Partly in earnest, partly in ])lay, — 

" I wish it would never again be May ! " 

And he would answer, half pleased, 

half tried, 
As he drew her nearer to his side, 
" Nay, nay, for in spring I shall have my 

bride." 



198 



And she 'd cry in a pretty childish pet, 
" Ah ! then you must have whom you 

can get ; 
I shall not marry for ages yet." 

Then gravely he 'd shake his head at 

this : 
But things went never so far amiss 
They were not righted at last by a kiss. 

And so the seasons sped merry and fast, 
And the budding spring-tmie came, and 

passed, 
And the wedding day was set at last. 

With never a quarrel, scarce a fear. 
Each to the other growing more dear, 
They kept their wooing a whole sweet 
year. 



In the village church where a child she 

was led, 
Where a maiden she sang in the choir 

o'erhead. 
There were Bethy and Robert wed. 

Strong, yet tender and good looked 

he, 
As he took her almost reverently. 
And she was a pleasant sight to see. 

And men and women, far and wide. 
Came from village and country side 
To wish them joy and to greet the bride. 

The friends who knew them since they 

were born, 
Each with his best and bravest worn 
Did honor to them on their marriage 

morn. 

But one at the church was heard to say : 
" The Squire, whom none has seen to- 
day, 
Might have given the bride away, 

" Yet his is a face 't were best to miss ; 
And what could he do at a time like 

this, 
But be a cloud on its happiness ? 

" So let him stay with his gloom and 

pride, 
For he is not fit to sit beside 
The wedding guests, or to kiss the 

bride." 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE GARY. 



But Bethy, her heart was soft you know, 
To herself, as she heard it, whispered 

low, 
" Who knows what sorrow has made 

him so ? " 

And looking away towards the gloomy 

hall, 
And then at the bridegroom fine and 

tall, 
She said, " I wish he had come for all ! " 

Home through the green and shady 

lane. 
The way their childish feet had ta'en, 
They came as man and wife again. 

Just to the low old cottage here. 
Among the friends and places dear 
(For the gardener was not dead a year). 

And why, as the great do, should they 

range ? 
They needs must find enough of change, 
They are come to a world that is new 

and strange. 

Lovingly eventide comes on, 

The feast is eaten, the friends are gone, 

And wife and husband are left alone. 

In kindly parting they have prest 
The hand of every lingering guest. 
And now they shut us out with the rest. 

Oh, jay too sacred to look upon. 
The very angels may leave alone. 
Two happy souls by love made one ! 

But whatever they gain or whatever 

they miss. 
The poor have no time in a world like 

this. 
To waste in sorrow or happiness. 

For men who have their bread to earn 
Must plant and gather and grind the 

corn, 
And the miller goes to the mill at morn. 

He blushes a little, it may be. 
As with jokes about his family 
The rough hands tease him merrily. 

But lightly, gayly, as he replies, 
A braver, prouder light in his eyes 
Shows that he loves and can guard hij 
prize. 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



199 



And the voice o'er the roar of the mill- 
wheel heard, 
In the house is as soft in every word, 
As if the wife were some timid bird ; 

And he strokes her hair as we handle 

such 
Dear things that we love to pet so 

much. 
And yet are half afraid to touch. 

And Bethy, pretty, young, and gay. 
Trying the strange new matron way, 
Seems to "make believe," like a child 
at play, 

In and out the whole day long. 

At work in the house, or her flowers 

among, 
You scarce can hear the birds for her 

song. 

Though many times does she steal, I 

ween. 
A glance at the mill, the blinds between, 
Blushing, and careful not to be seen. 

But busy with sewing, broom, or meal, 
Swiftly away the moments steal, 
And she hears the last slow turn of the 
wheel. 

And the miller glad, but tired and 

slow. 
Comes, looking white as the man of 

snow 
They made in the winter, long ago. 

Oft the cottage door is opened wide, 
Before his hand the latch has tried, 
By the eager wife who waits inside. 

Though sometimes out from a hiding- 
place. 

She slyly peeps, when he comes, to 
trace 

The puzzled wonder of his face. 

And she loves to see the glad surprise, 
That, when from her secret nook she 

flies. 
Shines in his happy, laughing eyes. 

And he, before from his hand she 

slips, 
Leaves the mark on her waist of finger 

tips. 
And powders her pretty face and lips. 



THE BABY. 

O'er the miller's cottage the seasons 

glide, 
And at the next year's Christmas-tide 
We see her a mother, we saw a bride. 

All in the spring was the brown flax 

spun, 
Ail in the summer it bleached in the 

sun ; 
In the autumn days was the sewing 

done. 

And just when the Babe was born of 

old, 
Close wrapped in many a dainty fold. 
She gave the mother her babe to hold. 

Ah, sweetly the maiden's ditties rung. 
And sweet was the song the young wife 

sung ; 
But never trembled yet on her tongue, 

Such tender notes as the lullabies. 
That now beside the cradle rise 
Where softly sleeping the baby lies. 

And the child has made the father grow 
Prouder, as all who see may know. 
Than he was of his bride, a year ago. 

He kinder too has grown to all. 
And oft as the gloomy shadows fall. 
He speaks of the Squire in his lonely 
hall. 

And Bethy, even more tender grown. 
Says, almost with tears in her tone. 
How he 's growing old in his home 
alone. 

For now, that her life is so bright and 

fair, 
She thinks of all men with griefs to 

bear ; 
And of sorrowful women everywhere, 

Who sit with enipty hands to hold. 
And weep for babies dead and cold, — 
And of such as never had babes to hold. 

So the miller and wife live on in their 

cot 
Untroubled, content with what they 

have got ; — 
Hath the whole wide world a happier 

lot.? 



20O 



THE POEMS OF PH(EBE GARY. 



And the neighbors all about declare, 
That never a better, handsomer pair, 
Are seen at market, church, or fair. 

So free from envy, pride, or guile, 
They keep their rustic simple style. 
And bask in fortune's kindliest smile. 

Though time and tide must go as they 

will, 
And change must even cross the sill 
Of the happy Miller of Dovecote Mill. 

THE FATHER. 

Hushed is the even-song of the bird, 
Naught but the katydid is heard. 
And the sound of leaves by the night 
wind stirred. 

Swarms of fireflies rise and shine 
Out of the green grass, short and fine, 
Where, dotting the meadows, sleep the 
kine. 

And the bees, done flying to and fro, 
In the fields of buckwheat, white as 

snow. 
Cling to the hive, in a long black row. 

Closed are the pink and the poppy 

red. 
And the lily near them hangs her 

head, 
And the camomile sleeps on the garden 

bed. 

The wheel is still that has turned all 

day, 
And the mill stream runs unvexed away, 
Under the thin mist, cool and gray. 

And the little vine-clad home in the 

dell 
"With this quiet beauty suiteth well. 
For it seems a place where peace should 

dwell. 

And sitting to-night on the cottage sill 
Is the wife of the Miller of Dovecote 

Mill,— 
Quiet Bethy, thoughtful and still. 

As she hears the cricket chirping low. 
And the pendulum swinging to and 

fro, 
And the child in the cradle, breathing 

slow; 



Are her thoughts with her baby, fast 

asleep, 
Or do they wander away, and keep 
With him she waits for as night grows 

deep .'' 

Or are they back to the days gone by. 
When free as the birds that swing and 

She lived with never a care or tie ? 

Ah ! who of us all has ever known 
The hidden thought and the undertone 
Of the bosom nearest to our own ! 

For the one we deemed devoid of art 
May have lain and dreamed on our 

trusting heart 
The dreams in which we had no part ! 

And Bethy, the honest miller's wife. 
Whom he loves as he loves his very 

life, 
May be with him and herself at strife. 

For she was only a child that day, 
When she gave her hand in the church 

away, 
And the friends who loved her used to 

say, — 

(For you know she was the country's 

pride), 
If she ever had had a suitor beside 
She might not be such a willing bride ! 

Though never one would hint but he 
Was as true and good and fair as she. 
They wondered still that the match 
should be. 

And said, were she like a lady drest, 
There was not a fairer, east nor west ; — • 
And yet it might be all for the best ! 

So who can guess her thoughts as her 

sight 
Rests on the road-track, dusty and 

white. 
The way the miller must come to-night ! 



Up in his gloomy house on the hill, 
He lies in his chamber, white and 

still,— 
The Squire, who owns the Dovecote 

MilL 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



201 



What hath the rich man been in his 

day ? 
" Hard and cruel and stern, alway ; " — 
This is the thing his neighbors say, 

" Silent and grim as a man could 

be ; " — 
But the miller's wife says, tenderly, 
"He has always a smile for the babe 

and me." 

But whatever he was, in days gone by, 
Let us stand in his presence reverent- 

For to him the great change draweth 
nigh. 

There the light is dim, and the June 

winds blow 
The heavy curtains to and fro. 
And the watchers, near him, whisper 

low. 

Something the sick man asks from his 

bed; 
Is it the leech or the priest ? they said. 
" Nay, bring me Bethy, here," he said. 

" Have you not heard me ; will you not 

heed ; 
Go to the miller's wife with speed. 
And tell her the dying of her hath 

need." 

Slowly the watchers shook the head, 
They knew that his poor wits wandered ; 
" Yet, now let him have his way," they 
said. 

So when the turn of the night has 

come. 
She stands at his bedside, frightened, 

dumb, 
Holding his fingers, cold and numb. 

He has sent the watchers and nurse 

away. 
And now he is keeping death at bay, 
Till he rids his soul of what he would 

say. 

" Now, hear me, Bethy, I am not wild. 
As I hope to God to be reconciled, 
I am thy father — thou my child ! 

" I loved a maiden, the noblest one 
That ever the good sun shone upon : 
I had wealth and honors, she had none. 



" And when I wooed her, she answered 

me, — 
' Nay, I am too humble to wed with 

thee, 
Let me rather thine handmaid be 1 ' 

" From home with me, for love, she 

fled 
The night that in secret we were wed ; 
And she kept the secret, living and 

dead. 

." Serving for wages duly paid, 

In my home she lived, as an humble 

maid. 
Till under the grass of the churchyard 

laid. 

" Twenty years has remorse been fed, 
Twenty years has she lain there dead, 
With her sweet name Mercy, at her 
head. 

" How you came to the world was 

known 
But to the gardener's wife alone. 
Who took, and reared you up as her 

own. 

"Though conscience whispered, early 

and late, 
Your child is worthy a higher fate. 
Still shame and pride said, always, wait. 

" But alas ! a debt unpaid grows vast. 
And whether it come, or slow or fast, 
The day of reckoning comes at last. 

" So, all there was left to do, I have 

done. 
And the gold and the acres I have 

won , 
Shall come to you with the morning's 

sun. 

" And may this atone ; oh would that 
it might, 

And lessen the guilt of my soul to- 
night. 

For the one great wrong that I cannot 
right." 

Scarcely the daughter breathed or 

stirred, 
As she listened close for another 

word ; 
But " Mercy ! " was all that she ever 

heard. 



202 



THE POEMS OF PIICEBE CAHY. 



She clung to his breast, she bade him 

stay, 
But ere the words to her lips found way. 
She knew the thing that she held was 

clay. 

All that she had was a father's gold. 
Never his kind warm hand to hold, 
Never a kiss till his lips were cold ! 

THE WIFE. 

Brightly the morning sunshine glowed, 
As slowly, thoughtfully, Bethy trode 
Towards the mill by the winter road. 

Now she sees the mansion proud and 

gray, 
And its goodly acres stretching away. 
And she knows that these are hers to- 
day. 

Glad visions surely before her rise, 
For bright in her cheek the color lies, 
And a strange new light in her tender 
eyes. 

Now she is rich, and a lady born, 
Does she think of her last year's wed- 
ding morn. 
And the house where she came a bride, 
with scorn ? 

And to him, unfit for a lady, grand, 
To whom she gave her willing hand. 
Though he brought her neither house 
nor land .'' 

How will she meet him ? what is his 

fate, 
"Who eager leans o'er the rustic gate 
To watch her coming .-■ Hush and wait ! 

No word she says as over the sill. 
And into the cottage low and still. 
She walks by the Miller of Dovecote 
Mill. 

Why does she tremble, the goodman's 

dame. 
And turn away as she soeaks his name ? 
Is it for love, or alas ! for shame .■* 

' Last night," she says, " as I watched 
for thee, 

Catne those from the great house hur- 
riedly, 

Who said that the master sent for me : 



" That his life was burned to a feeble 

flame, 
But sleeping or waking all the same. 
And day and night he called my name. 

" So I followed wondering, where they 

led, 
And half bewildered, half in dread, 
I stood at midnight by his bed. 

" What matter, to tell what he said 

again ; 
The dreams perchance of a wandering 

brain ! 
Only one thing is sure and plain. 

" Of his gold and land and houses fine, 
All that he had, to-day is thine. 
Since in dying he made them mine. 

" I would that the gift were in thy name, 
Yet mine or thine it is all the same ; 
And we must not speak of the dead 
with blame. 

" And who but thee should be his heir ? 
Thou hast served him ever with faith- 
ful care. 
And he had no son his name to bear ! " 

Slowly, as one who marveled still, 
Answered the Miller of Dovecote Mill, 
" 'T is a puzzle, tell it how you will, 

" Why his child could never better fare 
Than thou, with wealth enough and to 

spare, 
For it is not 1 but thou who art heir. 

" 'T is not so strange it should come to 

thee. 
Thou wert fit for a lady, as all could 

see, 
And rich or poor, too good for me." 

Meek before him she bowed her head ; 
" I want nor honor nor gold," she said, 
" I take my lot as it is instead. 

" Keep gold and lands and houses fine. 
But give me thy love, as I give thee 

mine. 
And my wealth shall still be more than 

thine ! 

" And if I had been in a mansion bred. 
And not in a humble cot," she said, 
" I think we two should still have wed. 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



203 



" For if I had owned the acres grand, 
Instead of the gardener's scanty land, 
I had given them all for thy heart and 
hand. 

" So, heiress or lady, what you will. 

This only title I covet still. 

Wife of the Miller of Dovecote Mill 1 " 



A BALLAD OF LAUDERDALE. 

A shepherd's child young Barbara 
grew, 

A wild flower of the vale ; 
While gallant Duncan was the heir 

Of the Laird of Lauderdale. 
• 
He sat at ease in bower and hall 

With ladies gay and fine ; 
She led her father's sheep at morn, 

At eve she milked the kine. 

O'er field and fell his steed he rode, 

The foremost in the race ; 
She bounded graceful as the deer 

He followed in the chase. 

Yet oft he left his pleasant friends, 
And, musing, walked apart ; 

For vague unrest and soft desire 
Were stirring in his heart. 

One morn, when others merrily 
Wound horn within the wood. 

He on the hill -side strayed alone. 
In tender, thoughtful mood. 

And there, with yellow snooded hair, 

And plaid about her flung. 
Tending her pretty flock of sheep. 

Fair IJarbara sat and sung. 

The very heath-flower bent to hear. 
The echoes seemed to pause, 

As sweet and clear the maiden sang 
The song of " Leader Haughs." 

And, while young Duncan, gazing, 
stood 

Enchanted by the sound, 
He from the arrows of her eyes 

Received a mortal wound ! 



" Sweet maid," he cried, 
whose power 
Hath ever held me fast j 



' the hrst 



Now take my love, or_ scorn my love. 
You still shall be the last ! " 

She felt her heart with pity move, 

Yet hope within her died ; 
She knew her friendless poverty. 

She knew his wealth and pride. 

"Alas ! your father's scorn," she said, 

" Alas ! my humble state." 
" 'T were pity," Duncan gayly cried. 

But love were strong as hate ! " 

He took her little trembling hand. 

He kissed her fears away ; 
" Whate'erthe morrow brings," he said, 

" We '11 live and love to-day ! " 

So all the summer through they met, 
Nor thought what might betide. 

Till the purple heather all about 
The hills grew brown and died. 

One eve they, parting, lingered long 

Together in the dell. 
When suddenly a shadow black 

As fate between them fell. 

The hot blood rushed to Duncan's brow. 
The maiden's cheek grew pale. 

For right across their pathway frowned 
The Laird of Lauderdale. 

Ah ! cruel was the word he spake. 

And cruel was his deed ; 
He would not see the maiden's face. 

Nor hear the lover plead. 

He called his followers, in wrath. 
They came in haste and fright ; 

They tore the youth from out her arms, 
They bore him from her sight. 

And he at eve may come no more ; 

Her song no more she trills ; 
Her cheek is whiter than the lambs 

She leads along the hills. 

For Barbara now is left alone 
Through all the weary hours. 

While Duncan pines a prisoner, fast 
Within his father's towers. 

And autumn goes, and spring-timft 
comes, 

And Duncan, true and bold. 
Has scorned alike his father's threats 

And bribes of land and gold. 



204 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE GARY. 



And autumn goes, and spring-time 
comes, 

And Barbara sings and smiles : 
" 'T is fair for love," she softiv says, 

" To use love's arts and wiles." 

No other counselor hath she 
But her own sweet constancy ; 

Yet hath her wit devised a way 
To set her true love free. 

One night, when slumber brooded deep 

O'er all the peaceful glen. 
She baked a cake, the like of which 

Was never baked till then. 

For first she took a slender cord, 
And wound it close and small ; 

Then in the barley bannock safe 
She hid the mystic ball. 

Next morn her father missed his child, 
He searched the valley round ; 

But not a maid like her within 
Twice twenty miles was found. 

For she hath ta'en the maiden snood 
And the bright curls from her head, 

And now she wears the bonnet blue 
Of a shepherd lad instead. 

And she hath crossed the silent hills, 
And crossed the lonely vale ; 

And safe at morn she stands before 
The towers of Lauderdale. 

And not a hand is raised to harm 

The pretty youth and tall. 
With just a bannock in his scrip, 

Who stands without the wall. 

Careless awhile he wanders round, 

But when the daylight dies 
He comes and stands beneath the tower 

Where faithful Duncan lies. 

Fond man ! nor sunset dyes he sees, 

Nor stars come out above ; 
His thoughts are all upon the hills, 

Where first he learned to love ; 

When suddenly he hears a voice, 
That makes his pulses start — 

A sweet voice singing " Leader Haughs," 
The song that won his heart. 

tie leans across the casement high ; 
A minstrel boy he spies ; 



He knows the maiden of his love 
Through all her strange disguise ! 

She made a sign, she spake no word. 
And never a word spake he ; 

She took the bannock from her scrip 
And brake it on her knee ! 

She threw the slender cord aloft, 
He caught and made it fast ; 

One moment more and he is safe, 
Free as the winds at last ! 

No time is this for speech or kiss, 
No time for aught but flight ; 

His good steed standing in the stall 
Must bear them far to-night. 

So swiftly JDuncan brought him forth. 

He mounted hastily ; 
" Now, set your foot on mine," he said 

" And give your hand to me ! " 

He lifts her up ; they sweep the hills. 
They ford the foaming beck ; 

He kisses soft the loving hands 
That cling about his neck. 

In vain at morn the Laird, in wrath, 
Would follow where they fled ; 

They 're o'er the Border, far away. 
Before the east is red. 

And when the third day's sun at eve 

Puts on his purple state, 
Brave Duncan checks his foaming steed 

Before his father's gate. 

Out came the Laird, with cruel look, 
With quick and angry stride ; 

When at his feet down knelt his son, 
With Barbara at his side, 

" Forgive me, father," low he said, 

No single word she spake ; 
But the tender face she lifted up 

Plead for her lover's sake. 

She raised to him her trembling hands, 
In her eyes the tears were bright. 

And any but a heart of stone 
Had melted at the sight. 

"Let love," cried Duncan, "bear the 
blame, 

Love would not be denied ; 
Fast were we wedded yestermom, 

I bring you here my bride ! " 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



205 



Then the Laird looked down into her 
eyes, 

And his tears were near to fall ; 
He raised them both from off the ground, 

He led them toward the Hall. 

Wondering the mute retainers stood, 
" Why give you not," he said, 

" The homage due unto my son. 
And to her whom he hath wed ? " 

Then every knee was lowly bent, 

And every head was bare ; 
" Long live," they cried, " his fair young 
bride. 

And our master's honored heir ! " 

Years come and go, and in his stall 
The good steed idly stands ; 

The Laird is laid with his line to rest, 
By his children's loving hands. 

And now within the castle proud 

They lead a happy life ; 
For he is Laird of Lauderdale, 

And she his Lady wife. 

And oft, when hand in hand they sit. 

And watch the day depart, 
She sings the song of " Leader Haughs," 

The song that won his heart ! 



THE THREE WRENS. 

Mr. Wren and his dear began early 
one year — 
They were married, of course, on St. 
Valentine's Day, — 
To build such a nest as was safest and 
best, 
And to get it all finished and ready by 
May. 

Their house, snug and fine, they set up 
in a vine 
That sheltered a cottage from sun- 
shine and heat : 
Mrs. Wren said : " I am sure, this is 
nice and secure ; 
And besides, I can see in the house, 
or the street." 

Mr. Wren, who began, like a wise mar- 
ried man. 
To check his mate's weak inclination 
to roam, 



Shook his little brown head, and re- 
provingly said : 
" My dear, you had better be looking 
at home. 

" You'll be trying the street pretty soon 
with your feet. 
And neglecting your house and my 
comfort, no doubt. 
And you'll find a pretext for a call on 
them next. 
If you watch to see what other folks 
are about. 

" There 's your own home to see, and 
besides there is me, 
And this visiting neigirbors is non- 
sense and stuff ! 
You would like to know why ? well, 
you 'd better not try ; — 
I don't choose to have you, and that 
is enough ! " 

Mrs. Wren did not say she would have 

her own way, — 
In fact, she seemed wonderfully meek 

and serene ; 
But she thought, I am sure, though she 

looked so demure, 
" Well I don't care ; I think you 're 

most awfully mean ! " 

Mr. Wren soon flew off, thinking, likely 
enough, 
I could manage a dozen such creat- 
ures with ease ; 
She began to reflect, I see what you ex- 
pect. 
But if I know myself, I shall look 
where I please ! 

However, at night, when he came from 
his flight. 
Both acted as if there was nothing 
amiss : 
Put a wing o'er their head, and went 
chirping to bed. 
To dream of a summer of sunshine, 
and bliss. 

I need scarcely remark, they were up 
with the lark. 
And by noon they were tired of work 
without play ; 
And thought it was best for the present 
to rest. 
And then finish their task in the cool 
of the day. 



2o6 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE GARY. 



So, concealed by the leaves that grew 
thick to the eaves, 
He shut himself in, and ha shut the 
world out ; — 
"Now," said she, "he's asleep, I will 
just take a peep 
In the cottage, and see what the folks 
are about." 

Then she looked very sly, from her 
perch safe and high, 
Through the great open window, left 
wide for the sun ; 
And she said : " I can't see what the 
danger can be, 
I am sure here is nothing to fear or to 
shun ! 

" There 's an old stupid cat, half asleep 
on the mat. 
But I think she 's too lazy to stir or 
to walk ; — 
Oh, you just want to show your impor- 
tance, I know. 
But you can't frighten me, Mr. Wren, 
with your talk ! 

" Now to have my own will, I '11 step 
down on that sill ; 
I 'm not an inquisitive person — oh, 
no ; 
I don't want to see what 's improper for 
me. 
But I like to find out for myself that 
it 's so." 

Then this rash little wren hopped on 
farther again. 
And grown bolder, flew in, and sat 
perched on a chair ; 
Saying, " What there is here that is 
dreadful or queer, 
I have n't been able to find, I declare. 

" Well, I wish for your sake, Mr. Wren, 
you would wake, 
And see what effect all your warning 
has had ; 
Ah ! I '11 call up that cat, and we 'II 
have a nice chat, 
And rouse him with talking — oh, 
won't he be mad ! " 

Bo she cried, loud and clear, "Good- 
day, Tabby, my dear ! 
I think neighbors a neighborly feeling 
should show." 



" How your friendliness charms," said 
Puss ; " come to my arms, 
I have had my eye on you some time, 
do you know ! " 

Something like a sharp snap broke that 
moment his nap, 
And Mr. Wren said, with a stretch 
and a wink : 
" I suppose, dear, your sleep has been 
tranquil and deep ; 
I just lost myself for a moment, I 
think. 

" Why ! she 's gone, I declare ! well, 
I 'd like to know where ? " 
And his head up and down peering 
round him he dips ; 
All he saw in the gloom of the shadowy 
room, 
Was an innocent cat meekly licking 
her lips ! 

" 'T is too bad she 's away ; for, of 
course, I can't stay," 
Said the great Mr. Wren, " shut in 
this little space : 
We must come and must go, but these 
females, you know, 
Never need any changes of work or 
of place." 

And then he began, like a badly-used 
man. 
To twitter and chirp with an impa- 
tient cry ; 
But soon pausing, sang out, " She 's 
gone off in a pout. 
But if she prefers being alone, so do I ! 

" Yet the place is quite still, so I '11 
whistle until 
She returns to her home full of shame 
and remorse ; 
I 'm not lonesome at all, but it 's no 
harm to call ; 
She '11 come back fast enough when 
she hears me, of course ! " 

So he started his tune, but broke o££ 
very soon. 
As if he 'd been wasting his time, like 
a dunce ; 
For he suddenly caught at a very wise 
thought, 
And he altered his whole plan of 
action at once. 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



207 



• Now, that cat;" he exclaimed, " may 
be wrongfully blamed ; 
And since it 's a delicate matter to 
broach, 
I don't say of her, that she is not sans 
peiir. 
But I 'm sure in this matter she 's not 
sans reproche ! 

" Ah ! I can't love a wren, as I loved 
her, again. 
But I '11 try to be manly and act as I 
ought ; 
And the birds in the trees, like the fish 
in the seas, 
May be just as good ones as ever were 
caught. 

" And if one in the hand, as all men 
understand. 
Is worth two in the bush," Mr. Wren 
gravely said, 
"Then it seems to me plain, by that 
same rule again. 
That a bird in the bush is worth two 
that are dead." 

So he dropped his sad note, and he 
smoothed down his coat, 
Till his late-ruffled plumage shone 
glossy and bright ; 
And light as a breeze, through the fields 
and the trees. 
He floated and caroled till lost to the 
sight. 

And in no longer time than it takes for 
my rhyme, — 
Now would you believe it ? and is n't 
it strange ! — 
He returned all elate, bringing home a 
new mate : 
But birds are but birds, and are given 
to change. 

Of course, larger folks are quite crushed 
by such strokes. 
And never are guilty of like fickle 
freaks ; — 
Ah ! a bird's woe is brief, but our great 
human grief 
Will sometimes affect us for days and 
for weeks ! 

tint this does not belong of good right 
to my song. 
For I started to tell about birds and 
their kind ; 



So I '11 say Mr. Wren, when he married 
again, 
Took a wife who had not an inquiring 
mind. 

For he said what was true : " Mrs. 
Wren, number two. 
You would not have had such good 
fortune, my dear. 
If the first, who is dead, had believed 
what I said. 
And contented herself in her own 
proper sphere." 

Now, to some it might seem like the 
very extreme 
Of folly to ask what you know very 
well ; 
But this Mrs. Wren did, and behaved as 
he bid. 
Never asking the wherefore, and he 
did n't tell. 

Yes, this meek little bird never thought, 
never stirred. 
Without craving leave in the proper- 
est way : 
She said, with the rest, " Shall I sit on 
my nest 
For three weeks or thirteen .' I '11 do 
just as you say ! " 

Now I think, in the main, it is best to 
explain 
The right and the reason of what we 
command ; 
But he would n't, not he ; a poor female 
was she, 
And he was a male bird as large as 
your hand ! 

And one more thing, I find, is borne in 
on my mind : 
Mr. Wren may be right, but it seems 
to me strange. 
That while both his grief and his love 
were so brief, 
He should claim such devotion and 
trust in exchange ! 

And yet I 've been told, that with birds 
young and old. 
All the males should direct, all the 
females obey ; 
Though, to speak for a bird, so at least 
I have heard, 
You must be one : — as I never was, 
I can't say ! 



208 



THE FOE MS OF PHCEBE GARY. 



DOROTHY'S DOWER. 

IN THREE PARTS. 
PART I. 

" My sweetest Dorothy," said John, 

Of course before the wedding. 
As metaphorically he stood. 

His gold upon her shedding, 
" Whatever thing you wish or want 

Shall be hereafter granted, 
For all my worldly goods are yours." 

The fellow was enchanted ! 

"About that little dower you have, 

You thought might yet come handy, 
Throw it away, do what you please, 

Spend it on sugar-candy ! 
I like your sweet, dependent ways, 

I love you when you tease me ; 
The more you ask, the more you spend. 

The better you will please me." 

PART II. 

" Confound it, Dorothy ! " said John, 

" I have n't got it by me. 
You have n't, have you, spent that 
sum. 

The dower from Aunt Jemima ? 
No ; well, that 's sensible for you ; 

This fix is most unpleasant ; 
But money 's tight, so just take yours 

And use it for the present. 
Now I must go — to — meet a man ! 

By George ! I '11 have to borrow ! 
Lend me a twenty — that 's all right ! 

I '11 pay you back to-morrow." 

PART III. 

" Madam," says John to Dorothy, 

And past her rudely pushes, 
*' You think a man is made of gold, 

And money grows on bushes ! 
Tom's shoes! your doctor I Can't you 
now 

Get up some new disaster ? 
You and your children are enough 

To break John Jacob Astor. 
Where 's what you had yourself when I 

Was fool enough to court you .'' 
That little stitn, till you got me, 

'T was what had to support you ! " 
' It 's lent and gone, not very far; 

Pray don't be apprehensive." 



" Lent ! I 've had use enough for it i 

My family is expensive. 
I did n't, as a woman would. 

Spend it on sugar-candy ! " 
" No, John, I think the most of it 

Went for cigars and brandy ! " 



BLACK RANALD. 

In the time when the little flowers are 
born, 

The joyfulest time of the year. 
Fair Marion from the Hall rode forth 

To chase the fleet red deer. 

She moved among her comely maids 

With such a stately mien 
That they seemed like humble violets 

By the side of a lily queen. 

For she, of beauties fair, was named 

The fairest in the land ; 
And lovelorn youths had pined and 
died 

For the clasp of her lady hand. 

But never suitor yet had pressed 

Her dainty finger-tips ; 
And never cheek that wore a beard 

Had touched her maiden lips. 

She laughed and danced, she laughed 
and sang ; 
.She bade her lovers wait ; 
Till the gallant Stuart Graeme, one 
morn. 
Checked rein at her father's gate. 

She blushed and sighed ; she laughed 
no more ; 
She sang a low refrain; 
And, when the bold young Stuart 
wooed. 
He did not woo in vain. 

And now, as to the chase she rides. 

Across her father's land. 
She wears a bright betrothal ring 

Upon her snowy hand. 

She loosed the rein, she touched the 
flank 
Of her royal red-roan steed. 
" Now, who among my friends," sh9 
said, 
" Will vie with me in speed?" 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



209 



She looked at GiDcme before them 
all, 

Though her face was rosy red. 
" He who can catch me as I ride 

Shall be my squire," she said. 

Away ! they scarce can follow 
Even with their eager eyes ; 

She clears the stream, she skims the 
plain 
Swift as the swallow flies. 

Alack ! no charger in the train 
Can match with hers to-day ; 

The very deer-hounds, left behind, 
Are yelling in dismay. 

Far out upon the lonely moor 
Her speed she checks at last ; 

One single horseman follows her. 
With hoof-strokes gaining fast. 

She 's smiling softly to herself, 
She 's speaking soft and low : 

"None but the gallant Stuart Gramme 
Could follow where I go ! " 

She wheels her horse ; she sees a 
sight 

That makes her pulses stand ; 
Her very cheek, but now so red. 

Grows whiter than her hand. 

For, while no friend she sees the way 
Her frightened eyes look back, 

Black Ranald, of the Haunted Tower, 
Is close upon her track ! 

He 's gained her side ; he 's seized her 
rein — 

The crudest man in the land ; 
And he has clasped her virgin waist 

With his wicked, wicked hand. 

She feels his breath upon her face, 
She hears his mocking tone. 

As he lifts her from her red-roan steed 
And sets her on his own. 

" Proud Mistress Marion," he cries, 

" In spite of all your scorn. 
Black Ranald is your squire to-day, 

He '11 be your lord at morn ! " 

She hears no more, she sees no more. 

For many a weary hour, 
Till from her deadly swoon she wakes 

In Ranald's Haunted Tower. 



For, in the highest turret there, 

With never a friend in call, 
He has tied her hands with a silvel 
chain 

And bound them to the wall. 

She fears no ghosts that haunt the 
dark, 

But she fears the coming dawn ; 
And her heart grows sick when at day 
she hears 

The prison-bolts withdrawn- 
She summons all her strength, as they 

Who for the headsman wait ; 
And she prays to every virgin saint 

To help her in her strait ; 

For she sees her jailer cross the sill. 

" Now, if you will wed with me," 
He said, " henceforth of my house and 
land 

You shall queen and ruler be." 

" Bold Ranald of the Tower," she 
said, 

" With heart as black as your name, 
I will only be the bride of Death 

Or the bride of Stuart Graeme. 

" I will make the coldest, darkest bed 
In the dismal church-yard mine, 

And lay me down to sleep in it, 
Or ever I sleep in thine ! " 

" I shall tame you yet, proud girl," he 
cried, 
" For you shall not be free. 
Nor bread nor wine shall pass your 
lips 
Till you vow to wed with me ! " 

She turned ; she laughed in his very 
face : 

" Sir Knave, your threats are vain ; 
Nor bread nor wine shall pass my lips 

Till I am free again ! " 

He echoed back her mocking laugh, 

He turned him on his heel ; 
When something smote upon his ear 

Like the ringing clang of steel. 

The bolts are snapped ; the strong dool 
falls ; 

The Grasme is standing there ; 
And a hundred armed men at his back 

Arc swarming up the stair I 



2IO 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE GARY. 



Black Ranald put his horn to his lips 

And blew a warning note. 
" Your followers lie," brave Stuart said, 

" Six deep within the moat ! 

" Alone, a prisoner in your tower, 
Now yield, or you are dead ! " 

Black Ranald gnashed his teeth in 
rage, 
" 1 yield to none," he said. 

They drew their swords. " Now die 
the death," 

Said Grjeme, " you merit well." 
And as he spake, at Marion's feet 

The lifeless Ranald fell. 

The Stuart raised the death-pale maid ; 

He broke her silver chain ; 
He bore her down, and set her safe 

On her good red-roan again. 

Now closely at his side she rides, 
Nor heeds them one and all ; 

And his hand ne'er quits her bridle- 
rein 
Till they reach her father's Hail. 

Then the glad sire clasps that hand in 
his own. 
While the tears to his beard drop 
slow ; 
" You have saved my child and rid the 
land," 
He cries, " of a cruel foe ; 

" And if this maiden say not nay," — 
Her cheeks burned like a flame, — 

" Then you shall be my son to-night, 
And she shall bear your name." 

They have set the lights in every room ; 

They have spread the wedding-feast ; 
And from the neighboring cloister's 
cell 

They^ave brought the holy priest. 

And she is a captive once again — 

The timid, tender dove ! 
For she slipped the silver chain to wear 

The golden chain of love ! 

Sweet Marion, under her snow-white 
veil, 
Stands fast bv her captor's side, 
&.S he binds he^ hands with the mar- 
riage-ring 
And kisses her •irst, a bride I 



THE LEAK IN THE DIKE. 

A STORY OF HOLLAND. 

The good dame looked from her cot> 
tage 

At the close of the pleasant day, 
And cheerily called to her little son 

Outside the door at play : 
" Come, Peter, come ! I want you to go, 

While there is light to see, 
To the hut of the blind old man who 
lives 

Across the dike, for me , 
And take these cakes I made for him — 

They are hot and smoking yet ; 
You have time enough to go and come 

Before the sun is set." 

Then the good-wife turned to her la- 
bor, 

Humming a simple song. 
And thought of her husband, working 
hard 

At the sluices all day long ; 
And set the turf a-blazing, 

And brought the coarse black bread ; 
That he might find a fire at night. 

And find the table spread. 

And Peter left the brother, 

\Vith whom all day he had played, 
And the sister who had watched their 
sports 

In the willow's tender shade ; 
And told them they 'd see him back be- 
fore 

They saw a star in sight, 
Though he would n't be afraid to go 

In the very darkest night ! 
For he was a brave, bright fellow. 

With eye and conscience clear ; 
He could do whatever a boy might do, 

And he had not learned to fear. 
Why, he would n't have robbed a bird'8 
nest. 

Nor brought a stork to harm. 
Though never a law in Holland 

Had stood to stay his arm ! 

And now, with his face all glowing, 
And eyes as bright as the day 

With the thoughts of his pleasant er 
rand. 
He trudged along the way ; 

And soon his joyous prattle 
Made glad a lonesome place — 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



211 



Alas ! if only the blind old man 
Could have seen that happy face ! 

Yet he somehow caught the brightness 
Which his voice and presence lent ; 

And he felt the sunshine come and go 
As Peter came and went. 

And now, as the day was sinking, 

And the winds began to rise, 
The mother looked from her door again, 

Shading her anxious 'eyes ; 
And saw the shadows deepen 

And birds to their homes come back, 
But never a sign of Peter 

Along the level track. 
But she said : " He will come at morn- 
ing, 

So I need not fret or grieve — 
Theugh it is n't like my boy at all 

To stay without my leave." 

But where was the child delaying ? 

On the homeward way was he, 
And across the dike while the sun was 
up 

An hour above the sea. 
He was stopping now to gather flowers. 

Now listening to the sound. 
As the angry waters dashed themselves 

Against their narrow bound. 
" Ah ! well for us," said Peter, 

" That the gates are good and strong, 
And my father tends them carefully, 

Or they would not hold you long ! 
You 're a wicked sea," said Peter ; 

" I know why you fret and chafe ; 
You would like to spoil our lands and 
homes ; 

But our sluices keep you safe ! " 

But hark ! Through the noise of waters 

Comes a low, clear, trickling sound ; 
And the child's face pales with terror, 

And his blossoms drop to the ground. 
He is up the bank in a moment, 

And, stealing through the sand. 
He sees a stream not vet so large 

As his slender, childish hand. 
^Tis a leak in the dike ! He is but a 
boy. 

Unused to fearful scenes ; 
But, young as he is, he has learned to 
know 

The dreadful thing that means. 
A leak in the dike ! The stoutest heart 

Grows faint that cry to hear, 
And the bravest man in all the land 

Turns white with mortal fear. 



For he knows the smallest leak may 
grow 
To a flood in a single night ; 
And he knows the strength of the cruel 
sea 
When loosed in its angry might. 

And the boy ! He has seen the danger, 

And, shouting a wild alarm, 
He forces back the weight of the sea 

With the strength of his single arm ! 
He listens for the joyful sound 

Of a footstep passing nigh ; 
And lays his ear to the ground, to catch 

The answer to his cry. 
And he hears the rough winds blowing, 

And the waters rise and fall. 
But never an answer conies to him, 

Save the echo of his call. 
He sees no hope, no succor, 

His feeble voice is lost ; 
Yet what shall he do but watch and 
wait. 

Though he perish at his post ! 

So, faintly calling and crying 

Till the sun is under the sea ; 
Crying and moaning till the stars 

Come out for company ; 
He thinks of his brother and sister, 

Asleep in their safe warm bed ; 
He thinks of his father and mother, 

Of himself as dying — and dead ; 
And of how, when the night is over. 

They must come and find him at last : 
But he never thinks he can leave th^ 
place 

Where duty holds him fast. 

The good dame in the cottage 

Is up and astir with the light, 
For the thought of her little Peter 

Has been with her all night. 
And now she watches the pathway, 

As yester eve she had done ; 
But what does she see so strange and 
black 

Against the rising sun } 
Her neighbors are bearing between them 

Something straight to her door ; 
Her child is coming home, but not 

As he ever came before ! 

" He is dead ! " she cries ; " my dar- 
ling ! " 

And ihe startled father hears. 
And comes and looks the way she looks, 

And fears the thing she fears : 



212 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE GARY. 



Till a glad shout from the bearers 

Thrills the stricken man and wife — 
" Give thanks, for your son has saved 
our land, 

And God has saved his life ! " 
So, there in the morning sunshine 

They knelt about the boy ; 
And every head was bared and bent 

In tearful, reverent joy. 

'T is many a year since then ; but still. 

When the sea roars like a flood, 
Their boys are taught what a boy can 
do 

Who is brave and true and good. 
For every man in that country 

Takes his son by the hand. 
And tells him of little Peter, 

Whose courage saved the land. 

They have many a valiant hero. 

Remembered through the years : 
But never one whose name so oft 

Is named with loving tears. 
And his deed shall be sung by the cra- 
dle. 

And told to the child on the knee, 
So long as the dikes of Holland 

Divide the land from the sea ! 



THE LANDLORD OF THE BLUE 
HEN. 

Once, a long time ago, so good stories 
begin, 

There stood by a roadside an old-fash- 
ioned inn ; 

An inn, which the landlord had named 
" The Blue Hen," 

While he, by his neighbors, was called 
" Uncle Ben ; " 

At least, they quite often addressed him 

that way 
When ready to drink but not ready to 

pay ; 
Though when he insisted on having the 

cash, 
They went off, muttering " Rummy," 

and " Old Brandy Smash." 

He sold barrels of liquor, but still the 

old " Hen" 
Seemed never to flourish, and neither 

did " Ben ; " 



For he drank up the profits, as every 

one knew. 
Even those who were drinking their 

profits up, too. 

So, with all they could drink, and with 
all they could pay. 

The landlord grew poorer and poorer 
each day ; 

Men said, as he took down the gin from 
the shelf, 

" The steadiest customer there was him- 
self." 

There was hardly a man living in the 

same street 
But had too much to drink and too little 

to eat ; 
The women about the old "Hen "got 

the blues ; 
The girls had no bonnets, the boys had 

no shoes. 

When a poor fellow died, he was borne 
on his bier 

By his comrades, whose hands shook 
with brandy and fear ; 

For of course they were terribly fright- 
ened, and yet, 

They went back to " The Blue Hen " 
to drink and forget ! 

There was one jovial farmer who could 
n't get by 

The door of " The Blue Hen " without 
feeling dry ; 

One day he discovered his purse grow- 
ing light, 

" There must be a leak somewhere," he 
said. He was right ! 

Then there was the blacksmith (the best 

ever known 
Folks said, if he 'd only let liquor 

alone) 
Let his forge cool so often, at last he 

forgot 
To heat up his iron and strike when 

't was hot. 

Once a miller, going home from " "^he 

Blue Hen," 't was said. 
While his wife sat and wept by his sick 

baby's bed. 
Had made a false step, and slept all 

night alone 
\\\ the bed of the river, instead of his 

own. 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



213 



Even poor " Ben " himself could not 

drink of the cup 
Of fire forever without burning up ; 
He grew sick, fell to raving, declared 

that he knew 
No doctors could help him ; and they 

said so, too. 

He told those about him, the ghosts of 

the men 
Who used in their life-times to haunt 

" The Blue Hen," 
Had come back each one bringing his 

children and wife, 
And trying to frighten him out of his 

fife. 

Now he thought he was burning ; the 

very next breath 
He shivered and cried, he was freezing 

to death ; 
That the peddler lay by him, who, long 

years ago. 
Was put out of " The Blue Hen," and 

died in the snow. 

He said that the blacksmith, who turned 

to a sot, 
Laid hii?» out on an anvil and beat him, 

red-hot ; '■* 

That the builder, who swallowed his 

brandy fourth proof, 
Was pitching him downward, head first, 

from the roof. 

At last he grew frantic ; he clutched at 
the sheet, 

And cried that the miller had hold of 
his feet ; 

Then leaped from his bed with a ter- 
rible scream. 

That the dead man was dragging him 
under the stream. 

Then he ran, and so swift that no mor- 
tal could save ; 

He went over the bank and went under 
the wave ; 

And his poor lifeless body next morn- 
ing was found 

la the very same spot where the miller 
was drowned. 

" 'T was n'tliquor that killed him/' some 

said, " that was plain ; 
He was crazy, and sobc" folks might 

be insane ! " 



" 'T was deliriitm tremens,^'' the cor- 
oner said, 

But whatever it was, he was certainly 
dead ! 



THE KING'S JEWEL. 

'T WAS a night to make the bravest 
Shrink from the tempest's breath, 

For the winter snows were bitter. 
And the winds were cruel as death. 

All day on the roofs of Warsaw- 
Had the white storm sifted down 

Till it almost hid the humble huts 
Of the poor, outside the town. 

And it beat upon one low cottage 
With a sort of reckless spite. 

As if to add to their wretchedness 
Who sat by its hearth that night ; 

Where Dorby, the Polish peasant, 
Took his pale wife by the hand, 

And told her that when the morrow 
came 
They would have no home in the land. 

No human hand would aid him 

With the rent that was due at morn ; 

And his cold, hard-hearted landlord 
Had spurned his prayers with scorn. 

Then the pooi man took his Bible, 
And read, while his eyes grew dim, 

To see if any comfort 

Were written there for him ; 

When he suddenly heard a knocking 
On the casement, soft and light ; 

It was n't the storm ; but what else 
could be 
Abroad in such a night .'' 

Then he went and opened the window. 
But for wonder scarce could speak, 

As a bird flew in with a jeweled ring 
Held dashing in his beak. 

'T is the bird I trained, said Dorby, 
And that is the precious ring. 

That once I saw on the royal hand 
Of our good and gracious King. 

And if birds, as our lesson tells us. 
Once came with food to men, 



214 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE GARY. 



Who knows, said the foolish peasant, 
But they might be sent again ! 

So he hopefully went with the morn- 
ing. 

And knocked at the palace gate, 
And gave to the King the jewel 

They had searched for long and late. 

And when he had heard the story 
Which the peasant had to tell, 

He gave him a fruitful garden, 
And a home wherein to dwell. 

And Dorby wrote o'er the doorway 
These words that all might see : 

"Thou hast called on the Lord in 
trouble, 
And He hath delivered thee ! " 



EDGAR'S WIFE. 

I KNOW that Edgar 's kind and good, 
And I know my home is fine. 

If I only could live in it, mother, 
And only could make it mine. 

You need not look at me and smile, 
In such a strange, sad way ; 

I am not out of my head at all, 
And I know just what I say, 

I know that Edgar freeiy give? 

Whate'er he thinks will p.ease ; 
But it's what we love that brings us 
good. 

And my heart is not in these. 

Oh, I wish I could stand where the 
maples 

Drop their shadows, cool and dim ; 
Or lie in the sweet red clover. 

Where I walked, but not with him ! 

Nay, you need not mind me, mother, 
I love him — or at the worst, 

I try to shut the past from my heart ; 
But you know he was not the first ! 

And I strive to make him feel my life 
Is his, and here, as I ought ; 

But he never can come into the world 
That I live in, in my thought. 

For whether I wake, or whether I sleep, 
It is always just the same ; 



I am far away to the time that was, 
Or the time that never came. 

Sometimes I walk in the paradise, 

That, alas ! was not to be ; 
Sometimes I sit the whole night long 

A child on my father's knee ; 

And when my sweet sad fancies run 

Unheeded as they list. 
They go and search about to find 

The things my life has missed. 

Aye ! this love is a tyrant always, 
And whether for evil or good, 

Neither comes nor goes for our bid< 
ding, — 
But I 've done the best I could. 

And Edgar 's a worthy man I know, 
And I know my house is fine ; 

But I never shall live in it, mother, 
And I never shall make it mine ! 



THE FICKLE DAY. 

Last night, when the sweet young moon 
shone clear 

In her hall of starry splendor, 
I said what a maiden loves to hear, 

To a maiden true and tender. 
She promised to walk with me at noon, 

In the meadow red with clover ; 
And I set her words to a pleasant tune, 

And sang them over and over. 
So awake in the early dawn I lay, 

And heard the stir and humming 
The glad earth makes when her or- 
chestra 

Of a thousand birds is coming. 

I saw the waning lights in the skies 

Blown out by the breath of morn- 
ing ; 
And the morn grow pale as a maid who 
dies. 

When her loving wins but scorning 
And I said, the day will never rise ; 

On her cloudy couch she lingers, 
Still pressing the lids of her sweet blue 
eyes 

Close shut with her rosy fingers. 
But she rose at last, and stood arrayed 

Like a queen for a royal crowning, 
And I thought her look was never made 

For changing or for frowning. 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



215 



But alas for the dreams that round us 
play ! 
For the plans of mortal making ! 
And alas for the false and fickle day 
That looked so fair at waking ! 
For suddenly o\\ the world she frowned, 
Till the birds grew still in their 
places, 
And the blossoms turned their eyes on 
the ground 
To hide their frightened faces. 
And the light grew checkered where it 
lay. 
Across the hill and meadow, 
For she hid her sunny hair away 
Under a net of shadow. 

And close in the folds of a cloudy veil, 

Her altered beauty keeping, 
She breathed a low and lonesome wail, 

And softly fell a-weeping. 
And now, my dream of the time to be, 

My beautiful dream is over ; 
For no maiden will walk at noon with 
me 

In the meadow red with clover. 
And within and without I feel and see 

But woeful, weary weather ; 
Ah ! wretched day ; ah ! wretched me — 

We well may weep together ! 



THE MAID OF KIRCONNEL. 

Fair Kirtle, hastening to the sea, 

Through lands of sunniest green, 
But for thy tender witchery 
" Fair Helen of Kirconnel lea " 
A happier fate had seen. 

And wood-bower sweet, whose vines 
displayed 

A royal wreath of flowers ; 
Why did you lure the dreaming maid, 
So oft beneath your haunted shade, 

To pass the charmed hours .'' 

For hidden, like the feathery choir. 

There from the noontide's glance, 
She lit the heart's first vestal fire, 
And fed its flame of soft desire, 
With dreams of old romance. 

Poor, frightened doe, that sought the 
shade 
Of that sequestered place. 
And led the tender, timid maid, | 



Blushing, surprised, and half afraid, 
To meet the hunter's face. 

Not thine the fault, but thine the deed. 

Blind, harmless innocent, 
When to that bosom, doomed to bleed, 
With cruel, swift, unerring speed, 
The fatal arrow went. 

Why came no warning voice to save, 

No cry upon the blast. 
When Helen fair, and Fleming brave. 
Sat on the dead Kirconnel's grave. 

And spake, and kissed their last .-' 

O Mary, gone in life's young bloom, 

O " Mary of the lea," 
Couldst thou not leave one hour the 

tomb, 
To save her from that hapless doom, 

So soon to sleep by thee ? 

Vain, vain, to say what might have been, 

Or strive with cruel Fate ; 
Evil the world hath entered in, 
And sin is death, and death is sin, 
And love must trust and wait. 

For here the crown of lovers true 

Still hides its flowers beneath — 
The sharpest thorns that ever grew. 
The thorns that pierce us through and 
through. 
And make us bleed to death ! 



SAINT MACARIUS OF THE DES- 
ERT. 

Good Saint Macarius, full of grace. 

And happy as none but a saint can be. 
Abode in his cell, in a desert place. 

With only angels for company ; 
And fasting daily till vesper time. 
And praying oft till the hour of prime ; 

He wept so freely for all the sin 
That ever had stained his soul below. 

That, though the hue of his guilt had 
been 
As scarlet, it must have changed to 
snow. 

The Tempter scarce could charm his 

sight 
Who came transformed to an angel of 

light; 
The demons that pursued his track 



2l6 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE GARY. 



He sent to a fiercer torment back ; 
And he wearied, with fast and penance 

grim, 
The fiends that were sent to weary him, 
Until at last it came about 

That he vanquished the fiercest of 
Satan's brood, 
And the powers of darkness, tired out. 
Had left the anchoret unsubdued. 

Yet I marvel what they could have been, 
The sins that he strove to wash away ; 
For he had fled from the haunts of men 
In the pure, sweet dawn of his man- 
hood's day. 
But surely now they were all forgiven. 
For alone in the desert, for sixty 
years. 
He had eat of its scant herbs morn and 
even. 
And black bread, moistened with 
bitter tears. 

Yet so cunning and subtle is the mesh 

For the souls of the unwary laid, 
And so strong is the power of the 
world and flesh. 
That the very elect have been be- 
trayed. 
And therefore even our holy saint, 
When fast and penance and watch 
were done. 
Made often bitter and loud complaint 
Of the artful wiles of the Evil One. 
For he found that none may flee from 
his ire. 
Or find a refuge and safe retreat. 
In the time when Satan doth desire 
To have and to sift the soul like 
wheat. 

Good Saint Macarius, having passed 
The long, hot hours of the day in 
prayer. 
Rose once an hungered, after a fast 

That was long for even a saint to bear. 
And looking without, where the shad- 
ows fell — 
'T was a sight most rare in that 
lonely place — 
Just at the door of his humble cell 

He saw a stranger face to face, 
Who greeted him in a tender tone. 

That fell on his weary heart like balm, 
As graciously from out his own 

He dropped in the hermit's open 
palm 
A. cluster plucked from a fruitful vine. 



Ripe and ruddy, and full of wine. 
" Thanks," said the saint, for his heart, 
was glad, 
" My blessing take for a righteous 
deed ; 
'T is the very gift I would have had 
For one in his sore distress and need." 

Then, seizing a staff in his eager hand, 
He hurried over the burning sand. 
To a cell where a holy brother lay. 
Wasting and dying day by day. 
And gave, his dying thirst to slake. 
The fruit 't were a sin for himself to take. 

Alas ! the fainting hermit said. 

To the holy brother who watched his 

bed. 
Short at the worst can be my stay 
In this vile and wretched house of clay ; 
For my night is almost done below, 
And at break of day I must rise and go, 
Shall I yield at last the flesh to please, 
And lose my soul for a moiTjent's ease t 
Nay, take this gift to my precious son. 
Whose weary journey is scarce begun, 
For the burden of penance and fast and 

prayer 
Is a heavier thing for the young to bear. 
Therefore his sin were not as mine. 
Though he ate the pleasant fruit of the 

vine. 

So, before another hour had gone. 
The will of the dying man was done ; 
And the fair young monk, who had 

come to dwell 
For the good of his soul in a desert-cell, 
Had bound the sandals on his feet. 

And drawn his hood about his head, 

And, bearing the cluster ripe and sweet, 

Was crossing the desert with cheerful 

tread. 

For he said, 'T were well that an aged 
saint 

Should break his fast with fruits like 
these : 
But I in my vigor dare not taint 

My soul with self-indulgencies. 
And the holy father whom I seek. 

By praying and fasting oft and long, 
I fear me makes the flesh too weak 
To keep the spirit brave and strong. 

At the day-break Saint Macarius rose 
From his peaceful sleep with coi* 
science clear, 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



217 



And lo ! the youngest monk of those 
Who lived in a desert-cell drew near ; 

And, greeting his father in the Lord, 
Passed reverently the open door. 

And again the hermit had on his board 
The fruit untouched as it was be- 
fore. 

Then Saint Macarius joyful raised 
His thankful eyes and hands to 
heaven, 
And cried aloud : " The saints be 
praised 
That unto all my sons was given 
Such strength that, tempted as they 

have been, 
Not a single soul hath yielded to sin." 

And then, though he had not broken 
fast. 
The lure was firmly put aside ; 
And in the future, as in the past, 
A self-denying man to the last. 

Good Saint Macarius lived and died. 
And he never tasted the fruit of the 
vine. 
Till he went to a righteous man's re- 
ward. 
And took of the heavenly bread and 
wine 
New in the kingdom of the Lord. 



FAIR ELEANOR. 

When the birds were mating and build- 
ing 

To the sound of a pleasant tune. 
Fair Eleanor sat on the porch and spun 

All the long bright afternoon. 
She wound the flax on the distaff, 

She spun it fine and strong ; 
She sung as it slipped through her 
hands, and this 

Was the burden of her song : 
' I sit here spinning, spinning. 

And my heart beats joyfully. 
Though my lover is riding away from 
me 

To his home by the hills of the sea." 

When the shining skeins were finished. 
And the loom its work had done. 

Fair Eleanor brought her linen out 
To spread on the grass in the sun. 

She sprinkled it over with water. 
She turned and bleached it white ; 



And still she sung, and the burden 
Was gay, as her heart was light : 
" O sun, keep shining, shining ! 

web, bleach white for me ! 
For now my lover is riding back 

From his home by the hills of the sea." 

When the sun, through the leaves of 
autumn, 

Burned with a dull-red flame. 
Fair Eleanor had made the robes 

To wear when her lover came. 
And she stood at the open clothes-press, 

And the roses burned in her face. 
As she strewed with roses and laven- 
der 

Her folded linen and lace ; 
And she murmured softly, softly : 

" My bridegroom draws near to me, 
And we sliall ride back together 

To his home by the hills of the sea." 

When the desolate clouds of winter 

Shrouded the face of the sun, 
Then the fair, fair Eleanor, wedded, 
Was dressed in the robes she had 
spun. 
But never again in music 

Did her silent lips dispart. 
Though her lover came from his home 
by the sea. 
And clasped her to his heart ; 
Though he cried, as he kissed and 
kissed her. 
Till his sobs through the house were 
heard — 
Ah, she was too happy where she had 
gone, 

1 ween, to answer a word ! 



BREAKING THE ROADS. 

About the cottage, cold and white, 
The snow-drifts heap the ground ; 

Through its curtains closely drawn to- 
night 
There scarcely steals a sound. 

The task is done that patient hands 
Through all the day have plied ; 

And the flax-wheel, with its loosened 
1)ands, 
Is idly set aside. 

Above the hearth-fire's pleasant glare, 
Sings now the streaming spout ; 



2l8 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE CAKY. 



The housewife, at her evening care, 
Is passing in and out. 

And still as here and there she flits, 
With cheerful, bustling sound. 

Musing, her daughter silent sits, 
With ej'cs upon the ground. 

A maiden, womanly and true. 
Sweet as the mountain-rose ; 

No fairer form than hers ere grew 
Amid the winter snows. 

A rosy mouth, and o'er her brow 
Brown, smoothly-braided hair. 

Surely the youth beside her now 
Must covet flower so fair. 

For bashfulness she dare not meet 
His eyes that keep their place. 

So steadfastly and long in sweet 
Perusal of her face. 

Herself is Lucy's only charm. 
To make her prized or sought ; 

And Ralph hath but the goodly farm 
Whereon his fathers wrought. 

He, with his neighbors, toiling slow 

To-day till sunset's gleam, 
Breaking a road-track through the snow, 

Has urged his patient team. 

They came at morn from every home, 
They have labored cheerily ; 

They have cut a way through the snowy 
foam. 
As a good ship cuts the sea. 

And when his tired friends were gone, 

Their pleasant labors o'er, 
Ralph stayed to make a path, alone, 

To Lucy's cottage-door. 

The thankful dame her friend must press 
To share her hearth's warm blaze : 

What could the daughter give him less 
Than words of grateful praise ? 

And now the board has given its cheer, 

The eve has nearly gone. 
Yet by the hearth-fire bright and clear 

The youth still lingers on. 

The mother rouses from her nap, 
Her task awhile she keeps ; 

At last, with knitting on her lap, 
Tired nature calmly sleeps. 



Then Lucy, bringing from the shelf 
Apples that mock her cheeks. 

Falls working busily herself. 
And half in whisper speaks. 

And Ralph, for very bashfulness, 

Is held a moment mute ; 
Then drawing near, he takes in his 

The hand that pares the fruit. 

Then Lucy strives to draw away 

Her hand, yet kindly too. 
And half in his she lets it stay, — 

She knows not what to do. 

" Darling," he cries, with flushing cheelq 

" Forego awhile your task ; 
Lift up your downcast eyes and speak, 

'T is but a word I ask ! " 

He sees the color rise and wane 

Upon the maiden's face ; 
Then with a kiss he sets again 

The red rose in its place. 

The mother wakes in strange surprise, 
And wondering looks about, — 

" How careless, Lucy dear," she cries ; 
" You 've let the fire go out ! " 

Then Lucy turned her face away, 

She did not even speak ; 
But she looked as if the live coals lay 

A-burning in her cheek. 

" Ralph," said the dame, " you ne'er 
before 
Played such a double part : 
Have you made the way both to my 
door 
And to my daughter's heart ? " 

" I 've tried my best," cried happy 
Ralph, 

" And if she '11 be my wife, 
I '11 make a pathway smooth and safe 

For my darling all her life ! " 

All winter from his home to that 

Where Lucy lived content, 
Along a path made hard and straight. 

Her lover came and went. 

And when spring smiled in all her bow. 
ers. 

And birds sang far and wide. 
He trod a pathway through the flowers^ 

And led her home a bride ! 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



219 



THE CHRISTMAS SHEAF. 

" Now, good-wife, bring your precious 
hoard," 
The Norland farmer cried ; 
" And heap the hearth, and heap the 
board. 
For the blessed Christmas-tide. 

"And bid the children fetch," he said, 
" The last ripe sheaf of wheat, 

And set it on the roof o'erhead. 
That the birds may come and eat. 

" And this we do for his dear sake. 

The Master kind and good. 
Who, of the loaves He blest and 
brake, 

Fed all the multitude." 

Then Fredrica, and Franz, and Paul, 
When they heard their father's words, 

Put up the sheaf, and one and all 
Seemed merry as the birds. 

Till suddenly the maiden sighed, 
The boys were hushed in fear. 

As, covering all her face, she cried, 
" If Hansei were but here ! " 

And when, at dark, about the hearth 
They gathered still and slow, 

You heard no more the childish mirth 
So loud an hour ago. 

And on their tender cheeks the tears 
Shone in the flickering light ; 

For they were four in other years 
Who are but three to-night. 

^nd tears are in the mother's tone ; 

As she speaks, she trembles, too : 
" Come, children, come, for the supper's 
done. 

And your father waits for you." 1 

Then Fredrica, and Franz, and Paul, 
Stood each beside his chair; 

The boys were comely lads, and tall, 
The girl was good and fair. 

The father's hand was raised to crave 

A grace before the meat. 
When the daughter spake ; her words 
were brave 

But her voice was low and sweet : 



" Dear father, should we give the wheat 

To all the birds of the air ? 
Shall we let the kite and the raven eat 

Such choice and dainty fare .'' 

" For if to-morrow from our store 

We drive them not away. 
The good little birds will get no more 

Than the evil birds of prey." 

" Nay, nay, my child," he gravely said, 
" You have spoken to your shame. 

For the good, good Father overhead, 
" Feeds all the birds the same. 

" He hears the ravens when they cry, 
He keeps the fowls of the air ; 

And a single sparrow cannot lie 
On the ground without his care." 

" Yea, father, yea ; and tell me this," ^ 
Her words came fast and wild, — 

" Are not a thousand sparrows less 
To Him than a single child ? 

" Even though it sinned and strayed 
from home ?" 

The father groaned in pain 
As she cried, "Oh, let our Hansei come 

And live with us again ! 

" I know he did what was not right" — 

Sadly he shook his head ; 
" If he knew I longed for him to-night, 

He would not come," he said. 

" He went from me in wrath and pride ; 

God ! shield him tenderly ! 
For I hear the wild wind cry outside. 

Like a soul in agony." 

" Nay, it is a soul ! " Oh, eagerly 
The maiden answered then ; 

" And, father, what if it should be he, 
Come back to us again ! " 

She stops — the portal open flies; 

Her fear is turned to joy : 
" Hansei ! " the startled father cries ; 

And the mother sobs, " My boy ! " 

'T is a bowed and humbled man they 
greet. 
With loving lips and eyes, 
Who fain would kneel at his father's 
feet. 
But he softly bids him rise ; 



220 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE GARY. 



And he says, " I bless thee, O mine 
own ; 

Yea, and thou shalt be blest ! " 
While the happy mother holds her son 

Like a baby on her breast. 

Their house and love again to share 

The Prodigal has come ! 
And now there will be no empty chair, 

Nor empty heart in their home. 

And they think, as they see their joy 
and pride 
Safe back in the sheltering fold, 
Of the child that was born at Christmas- 
tide 
In Bethlehem of old. 

And all the hours glide swift away 
With loving, hopeful words. 

Till the Christmas sheaf at break of 
day 
Is alive with happy birds ! 



LITTLE GOTTLIEB. 

A CHRISTMAS STORY. 

Across the German Ocean, 
In a country far from our own, 

Once, a poor little boy, named Gottlieb, 
Lived with his mother alone. 

They dwelt in the part of a village 
Where the houses were poor and 
small. 

But the home of little Gottlieb, 
Was the poorest one of all. 

He was not large enough to work. 
And his mother could do no more 

(Though she scarcely laid her knitting 
down) 
Than keep the wolf from the door. 

She had to take their threadbare clothes. 
And turn, and patch, and darn ; 

For never any woman yet 
Grew rich by knitting yarn. 

And oft at night, beside her chair, 
Would Gottlieb sit, and plan 

[Note — In Norway the last sheaf from the 
harvest field is never threshed, but it is always 
reserved till Christmas Eve, when it is set up on 
\he roof as a feast for the hungry birds.] 



The wonderful things he would do fol 
her. 
When he grew to be a man. 

One night she sat and knitted. 
And Gottlieb sat and dreamed, 

When a happy fancy all at once 
Upon his vision beamed. 

'T was only a week till Christmas, 
And Gottlieb knew that then 

The Christ-child, who was born thaj 
day. 
Sent down good gifts to men. 

But he said, " He will never find us, 
Our home is so mean and small. 

And we, who have most need of them, 
Will get no gifts at all." 

When all at once a happy light 

Came into his eyes so blue, 
And lighted up his face with smiles, 

As he thought what he could do. 

Next day when the postman's letters 
Came from all over the land ; 

Came one for the Christ-child, written 
In a child's poor trembling hand. 

You may think he was sorely puzzled 

What in the world to do ; 
So he went to the Burgomaster, 

As the wisest man he knew. 

And when they opened the letter. 
They stood almost dismayed 

That such a little child should dare 
To ask the Lord for aid. 

Then the Burgomaster stammered. 
And scarce knew what to speak, 

And hastily he brushed aside 

A drop, like a tear, from his cheek. 

Then up he spoke right gruffly, 

And turned himself about : 
This must be a very foolish boy, 

And a small one, too, no doubt." 

But when six rosy children 
That night about him pressed. 

Poor, trusdng little Gottlieb 
Stood near him, with the rest. 

And he heard his simple, touching 
prayer. 
Through all their noisy play; 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



221 



Though he tried his very best to put 
The thought of him away. 

A wise and learned man was he, 
Men called him good and just ; 

But his wisdom seemed like foolish- 
ness, 
Ey that weak child's simple trust. 

Now when the morn of Christmas came 
And the long, long week was done. 

Poor Gottlieb, who scarce could sleep. 
Rose up before the sun, 

And hastened to his mother. 

Hut he scarce might speak for fear, 

When he saw her wondering look, and 
saw 
The Burgomaster near. 

He was n't afraid of the Holy Babe, 
Nor his mother, meek and mild ; 

But he felt as if so great a man 
Had never been a child. 

Amazed the poor child looked, to find 
The hearth was piled with wood, 

And the table, never full before. 
Was heaped with dainty food. 

Then half to hide from himself the 
truth 
The Burgomaster said. 
While the mother blessed him on her 
knees, 
And Gottlieb shook for dread ; 

" Nay, give no thanks, my good dame. 

To such as me for aid. 
Be grateful to your little son. 

And the Lord to whom he prayed ! " 

Then turning round to Gottlieb, 
" Vour written prayer, you see. 

Come not to whom it was addressed, 
It only came to me ! 

" 'T was but a foolish thing you did, 

As you must understand ; 
For though the gifts are yours, you 
know. 

You have them from my hand." 

Then Gottlieb answered fearlessly, 
Where he humbly stood apart, 

"But the Christ-child sent them all the 
same. 
He put the thought in your heart J " 



A MONKISH LEGEND. 

Beautiful stories, by tongue and pen, 
Are told of holy women and men. 
Who have heard, entranced in some 

lonely cell. 
The things not lawful for lip to tell ; 
And seen, when their souls were caught 

away, 
What they might not say. 

But one of the sweetest in tale or rhyme 
Is told of a monk of the olden time. 
Who read all day in his sacred nook 
The words of the good Saint Austin's 

book. 
Where he tells of the city of God, that 

best 
Last place of rest. 

Sighing, the holy father said. 
As he shut the volume he had read : 
" Methinks if heaven shall only be 
A Sabbath long as eternity. 
Its bliss will at last be a weary reign, 
And its peace be pain." 

So he wandered, musing under his 

hood, 
Far into the depths of a solemn wood ; 
Where a bird was singing, so soft and 

clear, 
That he paused and listened with 

charmed ear ; 
Listened, nor knew, while thus intent, 
How the moments went. 

But the music ceased, and the sweet 

spell broke, 
And as if from a guilty dream he 

woke. 
That holy man, and he cried aghast, 
" Mea culpa ! an hour has passed, 
And I have not counted my beads, nor 

prayed 
To the saints for aid ! " 

Then, amazed he fled ; but his horror 
grew, 

For the wood was strange, and the path- 
way new ; 

Yet, with trembling step, he hurried 
on, 

Till at last the open plain was won, 

Where, grim and black, o'er the vale 
around. 
The convent frowned. 



222 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE CARY. 



" Holy Saint Austin ! " cried the monk, 
And down on the ground for terror sunk ; 
For lo ! the convent, tower, and cell. 
Sacred crucifix, blessed bell, 
Had passed away, and in their stead. 
Was a ruin spread. 

In that hour, while the rapture held him 

fast, 
A century had come and passed ; 
And he rose an altered man, and went 
His way, and knew what the vision 

meant ; 
For a mighty truth, till then unknown, 
By that trance was shown. 

And he saw how the saints, with their 

Lord, shall say, 
A thousand years are but as a day ; 
Since bliss itself must grow from bliss, 
And holiness from holiness ; 
And love, while eternity's ages move. 
Cannot tire of love ! 



ARTHUR'S WIFE. 

I 'm getting better, Miriam, though it 
tires me yet to speak ; 

And the fever, clinging to me, keeps me 
spiritless and weak. 

And leaves me with a headache always 
when it passes off ; 

But I 'm better, almost well at last, ex- 
cept this wretched cough ! 

I should have passed the livelong day 

alone here but for you ; 
For Arthur never comes till night, he 

has so much to do ! 
And so sometimes I lie and think, till 

my heart seems nigh to burst, 
Of the hope that lit my future, when I 

watched his coming first. 

I wonder why it is that now he does not 

seem the same ; 
Perhaps my fancy is at fault, and he is 

not to blame ; 
It surely cannot be because he has me 

alwaj^s near. 
For I feared and felt it long before the 

time he brought me here. 

Yet still, T said, his wife will charm each 

shadow from his brow, 
What can I do to win his love, or prove 

my loving now } 



So I waited, studying patiently his every 

look and thought ; 
But I fear that I shall never learn to 

please him as I ought. 

I 've tried so many ways, to smooth his 

path where it was rough. 
But I always either do too much, or fail 

to do enough ; 
And at times, as if it wearied him, he 

pushes off my arm — 
The very things that used to please have 

somehow lost their charm. 

Once, when I wore a pretty gown, a 

gown he used to jiraise, 
I asked him, laughing, if I seemed the 

sweetheart of old days. 
He did not know the dress, and said, he 

never could have told, 
'T was not that unbecoming one, which 

made me look so old ! 

I cannot tell how anything I do may 

seem to him. 
Sometimes he thinks me childish, and 

sometimes stiff and prim ; 
Yet you must not think I blame him, 

dear ; I could not wrong him so — 
He is very good to me, and I am happy, 

too, you know ! 

But I am often troublesome, and sick 

too much, I fear. 
And sometimes let the children cry when 

he is home to hear. 
Ah me ! if I should leave them, with no 

other care than his ! 
Yet he says his love is wiser than my 

foolish fondness is. 

I think he 'd care about the babe. I 

called him Arthur, too — 
Hoping to please him when I said, I 

named him, love, for you ! 
He never noticed any child of mine, ex- 

cept this one, 
So the girls would only have to do as 

they have always done. 

Give me my wrapper, Miriam. Help 
me a litttle, dear ! 

When Arthur comes home, vexed and 
tired, he must not find me here. 

Why, I can even go down-stairs : I al- 
ways make the tea. 

He does not like that any one should 
wait on him but me. 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



223 



He never sees me lying down when he 

is home, you know, 
And I seldom tell him how I feel, he 

hates to hear it so ; 
Yet I 'm sure he grieves in secret at the 

thought that I may die, 
Though he often laughs at me, and says, 

" You 're stronger now than I," 

Perhaps there are some men who love 

more than they ever say : 
He does not show his feelings, but that 

may not be his way. 
Why, how foolishly I 'm talking, when 

I know he 's good and kind ! 
But we women always ask too much; 

more than we ever find. 

My slippers, Miriam ! No, not those ; 

bring me the easy pair. 
I surely heard the door below ; I hear 

him on the stair ! 
There comes the old, sharp pain again, 

that almost makes me frown ; 
And it seems to me I always cough 

when I try to keep it down. 

Ah, Arthur ! take this chair of mine ; I 

feel so well and strong ; 
Besides, I am getting tired of it — I 've 

sat here all day long. 
Poor dear ! you work so hard for me, 

and I 'm so useless, too ! 
A trouble to myself, and, worse, a 

trouble now to you. 



GRACIE. 

Gracie rises with a light 

In her clear face like the sun, 
Like the regal, crowned sun 

That at morning meets her sight : 
Mirthful, merry little one, 
Happy, hojjeful little one ; 

What has made her day so bright .' 

Who her sweet thoughts shall divine, 
As she draweth water up, 
Water from the well-spring up ? 

What hath made the draught so fine. 
That she drinkcth of Uie cup. 
Of the dewy, dripping cup, 

As if tasting royal wine .' 

Tripping up and down the stair. 
Hers are pleasant tasks to-day. 
Hers are easy tasks to-day ; 



Done without a thought of care. 

Something makes her work but play, 
All her work delightful play. 

And the time a holiday. 

And her lips make melody, 

Like a silver-ringing rill, 

Like a laughing, leaping rill : 
Then she breaks off suddenly ; 

But her heart seems singing still. 

Beating out its music still, 
Though it beateth silently. 

And I wonder what she thinks ; 
Only to herself she speaks, 
Very low and soft she speaks. 

As she plants the scarlet pinks. 

Something plants them in her cheeks, 
Set them blushing in her cheeks. 

How I wonder what she thinks ! 

To a bruised vine she goes ; 

Tenderly she does her part, 

Carefully she does her part, 
As if, while she bound the rose, 

She were binding up a heart, 

Binding up a broken heart. 
Doth she think but of the rose ? 

Bringing odorous leaf and flower 
To her bird she comes elate, 
Comes as one, with step elate, 

Cometh in a happy hour 
To a true and tender mate. 
Doth she think of such a mate ? 

Is she trimming cage and bower .'' 

How she loves the flower she brings ! 
See her press her lips to this, 
Press her rosy mouth to this, 

In a kiss that clings and clings. 
Hath the maiden learned that kiss. 
Learned that lingering, loving kiss, 

From such cold insensate things .-• 

What has changed our pretty one ? 

A new light is in her eyes. 

In her downcast, drooping eyes. 
As she walks beneath the moon. 

What has waked those piteous 
sighs. 

Waked her touching, tender sighs ? 
Has love found her out so soon t 

Even her mother wonderingly 

Saith : " How strange our darling 

seems, 
How unlike herself she seems." 



224 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE GARY. 



And I answer : " Oft we see 
Women living as in dreams, 
When love comes into their dreams. 

What if hers such dreaming be ?" 

But she says, undoubtingly : 
" Whatsoever else it mean, 
This it surely cannot mean. 

Gracie is a babe to me. 

Just a child of scarce sixteen. 
And it seems but yestere'en 

That she sat upon my knee." 

Ah wise mother ! if you proved 
Lover never crossed her way, 
I would think the self-same way. 

Ever since the world has moved. 
Babes seemed women in a day ; 
And, alas ! and welladay ! 

Men have wooed and maidens loved ! 



POOR MARGARET. 

We always called her " poor Margaret," 
And spoke about her in mournful 
phrase ; 
And so she comes to my memory yet 
As she seemed to me in my childish 
days. 

For in that which changing, waxeth old, 
In things which perish, we saw her 
poor. 
But we never saw the wealth untold. 
She kept where treasures alone en- 
dure. 

We saw her wrinkled, and pale, and 
thin. 
And bowed with toil, but we could 
not see 
That her patient spirit grew straight 
within, 
In the power of its upright purity. 

Over and over, every day, 

Bleaching her linen in sun and rain. 
We saw her turn it until it lay, 

As white on the grass as the snow 
had lain ; 

But we could not see how her Father's 
smile. 

Shining over her spirit there. 
Was whitening for her all the while 

The spotless raiment his people wear. 



She crimped and folded, smooth and 
nice. 
All our sister's clothes, when she 
came to wed, — 
(Alas ! that she only wore them twice, 
Once when living, and once when 
dead!) 

And we said, she can have no wedding- 
day ; 
Speaking sorrowfully, under our 
breath ; 
While her thoughts were all where they 
give away 
No brides to lovers, and none to 
death. 

Poor Margaret ! she sleeps now under 
the sod. 
And the ills of her mortal life are 
past ; 
But heir with her Saviour, and heir of 
God, 
She is rich in her Father's House at 
last. 



LADY MARJORY. 

The Lady Marjory lay on her bed, 
Though the clock had struck the 
hour of noon, 
And her cheek on the pillow burned as 
red 
As the bleeding heart of a rose in 
June ; 
Like the shimmer and gleam of a golden 
mist 
Shone her yellow hair in the chamber 
dim ; 
And a fairer hand was never kissed 
Than hers, with its fingers white and 
slim. 

She spake to her women, suddenly, — 
" I have lain here long enough," she 
said ; 
" Lain here a year, by night and day. 
And I hate the pillow, and hate the 
bed. 
So carry me where I used to sit, 

I am not much for your arms to hold-, 
Strange phantoms now through my 
fancy flit, 
And mv head is hot and my feet are 
cold ! " 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



225 



They sat her up once more in her 
chair, 
And Alice, behind her, grew pale 
with dreai.1 
As she combed and combed her lady's 
hair. 
For the fever never left her head. 
And before her, Rose on a humble 
seat 
Sat, but her young face wore no 
smile, 
As she held in her lap her mistress' 
feet 
And chafed them tenderly all the 
while. 

*' Once I saw," said the lady, " a saintly 

nun, 
^Vho turned from the world and its 

pleasures vain ; — 
When they clipped her tresses, one by 

one, 
How it must have eased her aching 

brain ! 
If it ached and burned as mine does 

now. 
And they cooled it thus, it was worth 

the price ; — 
Good Alice, lay your hand on my brow, 
For my head is fire and my feet are 

ice ! " 

So the patient Alice stood in her place 
For hours behind her mistress' chair, 
Bathing her fevered brow and face. 

Parting and combing her golden hair : 
And Rose, whose cheek belied her 

name, 
^ Sitting before her, awed and still, 
Kept at her hopeless task the same 
Till she felt, through all her frame, 
the chill. 

" How my thoughts," the Lady Marjory 
said, 
" Go slipping into the past once more ; 
As the beads we are stringing slide 
down a thread, 
When we drop the end along the 
floor : • 
Only a moment past, they slid 

Thus into the old time, dim and 
sweet ; 
I was where the honeysuckles hid 

My head and the daisies hid my. feet. I 
I heard my Philip's step again, 
I felt the thrill of his kiss on my 
brow ; , 



Ah ! my cheek was not so crimson 
then. 
Nor my feet in the daisies cold as 
now ! 

" Dizzily still my senses swim, 

I am far away in a fairy land ; 
To the night when first I danced with 
Jiim, 
And felt his look, as he touched my 
hand ; 
Then my cheeks were bright with the 
flush and glow 
Of the joy that made the hours so 
fleet ; 
And my feet were rosy with warmth I 
know. 
As time to the music they lightly beat. 

" 'T is strange how the things I remem- 
ber, seem 
Blended together, and nothing plain ; 
A dream is like truth, and truth like a 
dream. 
With this terrible fever in my brain. 
But of all the visions that ever I had. 
There is one returns to plague me 
most ; 
If it were not false it would drive me 
mad, 
Haunting me thus, like an evil ghost. 

"It came to me first a year ago, 

Though I never have told a soul be- 
fore. 
But I dreamed, in the dead of the night, 
you know. 
That under the vines beside the door, 
I watched for a step I did not hear. 

Stayed for a kiss I did not feel ; 
But I heard a something hiss in my 
ear 
Words that I shudder still to reveal. 
I made no sound, and I gave no start, 
But I stood as the dead on the sea- 
floor stand. 
While the demon's words fell slow on 
my heart 
As burning drops from a torturer's 
hand. 

" ' Your Philip staj's,' it said, ' to-night, 
Where dark eyes hold him with magic 
spell ; 
Eyes from the stars that caught their 
light, 
Njt from some pretty blue flower's 
bell! 



226 



THE POEMS OF PH(EBE GARY. 



With raven tresses he waits to play, 
They have bound him fast as a bird 
in a snare, 
Did you think to hold him more than a 
day 
In the feeble mesh of your yellow 
hair ? 

" ' Flowers or pearls in your tresses 
twist, 
As your fancy suits you, smile or 
sigh ; 
Or give your dainty hand to be kissed 

By other lips, and he will not die : 
Hide your eyes in the veil of a nun, 
Weep till the rose in your cheek is 
dim ; 
Or turn to any beneath the sun. 

Henceforth it is all the sauie to him ! ' 

" This was before I took my bed ; — 
Do you think a dream could make me 
'ill, 
Could put a fever in my head. 

And touch my feet with an icy 
chill ? 
Yet I 've hardly been myself I know 
At times since then, for before my 
eyes 
The wildest visions come and go, 
Full of all wicked and cruel lies. 

" Once the peal of marriage-bells, with- 
out, 
Fell, or seemed to fall on my ear ; 
And I thought you went, and softly 
shut 
The window, so that I might not 
hear ; 
That you turned from my eager look 
away. 
And sadly bent your eyes on the 
ground. 
As if you said, 't is his wedding-day, 
And her heart will break if she hears 
the sound. 

" And dreaming once, I dreamed I 
woke, 
And heard you whisper, close at 
hand, 
Men said. Sir Philip's heart was broke, 
Since he gave himself for his wife's 
broad land ; 
That he smiled on none, but frowned 
instead, 
As he stalked through his halls, like a 
ghost forlorn ; 



And the nurse who had held him, a 
baby, said, 
He had better have died in the day 
he was born ! " 

So, till the low sun, fading, cast 

Across her chamber his dying beams, 
The Lady Marjory lived in the past. 

Telling her women of all her dreams. 
Then she changed; — "I am almost 
well," she said, 
" I feel so strangely free from pain ; 
Oh, if only the fever would leave my 
head, 
And if only my feet were warm again ! 
And something whispers me, clear and 
low, 
I shall soon be done with lying there. 
So to-morrow, when I am better, you 
know, 
You must come, good Alice, and 
dress my hair. 

" We will give Sir Philip a glad sur- 
prise. 
He will come, I know, at morn or 
night ; 
And I want the help of your hands and 
eyes 
To dress me daintily all in white ; 
Bring snowy lilies for my hair ; — 

And, Rose, when all the rest is done, 
Take from my satin slippers the pair 
That are softest and whitest, and put 
them on. 
But take me to bed now, where in the 
past 
You have placed me many a time and 
oft; 
I am so tired, I think at last 

I shall sleep, if the pillow is cool and 
soft." 

So the patient Alice took her head. 
And the sweet Rose took her mis- 
tress' feet. 
And they laid her tenderly on the 
bed. 
And smoothed the pillow, and 
smoothed the sheet. 
Then she wearily closed her eyes, they 
say. 
On this world, with all its sorrow and 
sin ; * 

And her head and her heart at the 
break of day. 
Were as cold as ever her feet had 
been ! 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 
THE OLD MAN'S DARLING. 



227 



So I'm "crazy," in loving a man of 

three-score ; 
Why, I never had come to my senses 

before, 
But I 'm doubtful of yours, if you 're 

thinking to prove 
My insanity, just by the fact of my love. 

You would like to know what are his 
wonderful wiles .'' 

Only delicate praises, and flattering 
smiles ! 

'T is no spell of enchantment, no magi- 
cal art, 

But the way he says "darling," that 
goes to my heart. 

Yes, he 's " sixty," I cannot dispute 

with you there. 
But you 'd make him a hundred, I think, 

if you dare ; 
And I 'm glad all his folly of first love 

is past. 
Since I 'm sure, of the two, it is best to 

be last. 

" His hair is as white as the snow-drift," 

you say ; 
Then I never shall see it change slowly 

to gray ; 
But I almost could wish, for his dear 

sake alone. 
That my tresses were nearer the hue of 

his own. 

" He can't see ; " then I '11 help him to 
see and to hear, 

If it 's needful, you know, I can sit very 
near; 

And he 's young enough yet to inter- 
pret the tone 

Of a heart that is beating up close to 
his own. 

I " must aid him ; " ah ! that is my pleas- 
ure and pride, 

I should love him for this if for nothing 
beside ; 

And though I 've more reasons than I 
can recall. 

Vet the one that " he needs me " is 
strongest of alL 

So, if I 'm insane, you will own, I am 
sure, 



That the case is so hopeless it 's past 

any cure ; 
And, besides, it is acting no very wise 

part. 
To be treating the head for disease ot 

the heart. 

And if anything could make a woman 
believe 

That no dream can delude, and no fancy 
deceive ; 

That she never knew lover's enchant- 
ment before. 

It 's being the darling of one of three- 
score ! 



A TENT SCENE. 

Oqr generals sat in their tent one night, 

On the Mississippi's banks. 
Where Vicksburg sullenly still held out 

Against the assaulting ranks. 

They could hear the firing as they 
talked, 
Long after set of sun ; 
And the blended noise of a thousand 
guns 
In the distance seemed as one. 

All at once Sherman started to his feet, 

And listened to the roar. 
His practiced ear had caught a sound, 

That he had not heard before. 

" They have mounted another gun on 
the walls ; 

'T is new," he said, " I know ; 
I can tell the voice of a gun, as a man 

Can tell the voice of his foe ! 

" What ! not a soul of you hears but 
me ? 

No matter, I am right ; 
Bring me my horse ! I must silence this 

Before I sleep to-night ! " 

He was gone ; and they listened to the 
ring 

Of hoofs on the distant track ; 
Then talked and wondered for a while,— 

In an hour he was back. 

" Well, General ! what is the news ? " 
they cried, 
As he entered flushed and worn ; 



228 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE GARY. 



" We have picked their gunners off, and 
the gun 
Will be dislodged at morn ! " 



THE LADY JAQUELINE. 

" False and fickle, or fair and sweet, 

I care not for the rest. 
The lover that knelt last night at my feet 

Was the bravest and the best. 
Let them perish all, for their power has 
waned. 

And their glory waxed dim ; 
They were well enough while they lived 
and reigned. 

But never was one like him ! 
And never one from the past would I 
bring 

Again, and call him mine ; — 
The King is dead, long live the King ! " 

Said the Lady Jaqueline. 

" In the old, old days, when life was 
new, 

And the world upon me smiled, 
A pretty, dainty lover I had. 

Whom I loved with the heart of a 
child. 
When the buried sun of yesterday 

Comes back from the shadows dim, 
Then may his love return to me, 

And the love I had for him ! 
But since to-day hath a better thing 

To give, I '11 ne'er repine ; — 
The King is dead, long live the King ! " 

Said the Lady Jaqueline. 

" And yet it almost makes me weep, 

Aye ! weep, and cry, alas ! 
When I think of one who lies asleep 

Down under the quiet grass. 
For he loved me well, and I loved again. 

And iow in homage bent, 
And prayed for his long and prosperous 
reign. 

In our realm of sweet content. 
But not to the dead may the living cling. 

Nor kneel at an empty shrine ; — 
The King is dead, long live the King! " 

Said the Lady Jaqueline. 

" Once, caught by the sheen of stars and 
lace, 

I bowed for a single day, 
To a poor pretender, mean and base, 

Ui^t for place or sway. 



That must have been the work of a speH 

For the foolish glamour fled, 
As the sceptre from his weak hand fell, 

And the crown from his feeble head: 
But homage true at last I bring 

To this rightful lord of mine, — 
The King is dead, long live the King ! " 

Said the Lady Jaqueline. 

" By the hand of one I held most dear, 

And called my liege, my own ! 
I was set aside in a single year. 

And a new queen shares his throne. 
To him who is false, and him who is wed, . 

Shall I give my fealty ? 
Nay, the dead one is not half so dead 

As the false one is to me ! 
My faith to the faithful now I bring, 

The faithless I resign ; — 
The King is dead, long live the King !^* 

Said the Lady Jaqueline. 

" Yea, all my lovers and kings that were 

Are dead, and hid away, 
In the past, as in a sepulchre, 

Shut up till the judgment day. 
False or fickle, or weak or wed. 

They are all alike to me ; 
And mine eyes no more can be misled,— 

They have looked on royalty ! 
Then bring me wine, and garlands bring 

For my king of the right divine ; — 
The King is dead, long live the King ! " 

Said the Lady Jaqueline. 



THE WIFE'S CHRISTMAS. 

How can you speak to me so, Charlie ! 

It is n't kind, nor right ; 
You would n't have talked a year ago, 
As you have done to-night. 

You are sorry to see me sit and cry, 
Like a baby vexed, you say ; 

When you did n't know I wanted a gift, 
Nor think about the day ! 

But I 'm not like a baby, Charlie, 

Crying for something fine ; 
Only a loving woman pained. 

Could shed such tears as mine. 

For every Christmas time till now — 

And that is why I grieve -— 
It was you that wanted to give. Charily 

More than I to receive. 



BALLADE AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



229 



And all I ever had from you 

I have carefully laid aside ; 
From the first June rose you pulled for 
me, 

To the veil I wore as a bride. 

And I would n't have cared to-night, 
Charlie, 
How poor the gift or small ; 
If you only had brought me something 
to show 
That you thought of me at all. 

The merest trifle of any kind, 
That I could keep or wear ; 

A flimsy bit of lace for my neck, 
Or a ribbon for my hair. 

Some pretty story of lovers true, 
Or a book of pleasant rhyme ; 

A flower, or a holly branch, to mark 
The blessed Christmas time. 

But to be forgotten, Charlie ! 

'T is that that brings the tear ; 
And just to think, that I have n't been 

Your wife but a single year ! 



COMING ROUND. 

'T is all right, as I knew it would be by 

and by ; 
We have kissed and made up again, 

Archie and I ; 
And that quarrel, or nonsense, whatever 

you will, 
I think makes us love more devotedly 

still. 

The trouble was all upon my side, you 

know ; 
I 'm exacting sometimes, rather foolishly 

so ; 
And let any one tell me the veriest 

lie 
About Archie, I 'm sure to get angry 

and cry. 

Things will go on between us again just 

the same, — 
For as he explains matters he was n't to 

blame ; 
But 't is useless to tell you ; I can't 

make you see 
How it was, quite as plainly as he has 

made me. 



You thought " I would make him come 

round when we met ! " 
You thought " there were slights I could 

never forget ! " 
Oh you did ! let me tell you, my dear, 

to your face, 
That your thinking these things does n't 

alter the case ! 

You " can tell what I said ! " I don't 

wish you to tell • 
You know what a temper I have, very 

well ; 
That I 'm sometimes unjust to my 

friends who are best ; 
'QvXyou 've turned against Archie the 

same as the rest ! 

" Why has n't he written .^ what kept 

him so still .'' " — 
His silence was sorely against his own 

will ; 
He has faults, that I own; but he, he 

would n't deceive ; 
He was ill, or was busy, — was both, I 

believe ! 

Did he flirt with that lady? I s'pose I 

should say. 
Why, yes, — when she threw herself 

right in the way ; 
He was led off, was foolish, but that is 

the worst, — 
And she was to blame for it all, from 

the first. 

And he 's so glad to come back again, 

and to find 
A woman once more with a heart and 

a mind ; 
For though others may please and 

amuse for an hour, 
I hold all his future — his life — in my 

power ! 

And now, if things don't go persistently 
wrong. 

Our destinies cannot be parted for 
long; 

For he said he would give me his fort- 
une and name, — 

Not those words, but he told me what 
meant just the same. 

So what could I do, after all, at the 

last. 
But just ask him to pardon my doubts 

in the past ; 



230 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE GARY. 



For though he had been wrong, I should 

stil], all the same, 
Rather take it myself than let him bear 

the blame. 

And, poor fellow ! he felt so bad, I 
could not bear 

To drive him by cruelty quite to de- 
spair ; 

And so, to confess the whole truth, 
when I found 

He was willing to do so himself, /came 
round ! 



THE LAMP ON THE PRAIRIE. 

The grass lies flat beneath the wind 
That is loosed in its angry might, 

Where a man is wandering, faint and 
blind, 
On the prairie, lost at night. 

No soft, sweet light of moon or star. 
No sound but the tempest's tramp ; 

"When suddenly he sees afar 
The flame of a friendly lamp! 

And hope revives his failing strength. 
He struggles on, succeeds, — 

He nears a humble roof at length, 
And loud for its shelter pleads. 

And a voice replies, " Whoever you be 
That knock so loud at my door. 

Come in, come in ! and bide with me 
Till this dreadful storm is o'er. 

" And no wilder, fiercer time in March 
Have I seen since I was born ; 

If a wolf for shelter sought my porch 
To-night, he might lie till morn." 

As he enters, there meets the stranger's 
gaze 
One bowed by many a year, — 
A woman, alone by the hearth's bright 
blaze. 
Tending her lamp anear. 

"Right glad will I come," he said, "for 
the sweep 
Of the wind is keen and strong ; 
But tell me, good neighbor, why you 
keep 
Your fire ablaze so long ? 



" You dwell so far from the beaten waj 
It might burn for many a night j 

And only belated rpen, astray, 
Would ever see the light." 

" Aye, aye, 't is true as you have said. 
But few this way have crossed ; 

But why should not fires be lit and fed 
For the sake of men who are lost ? 

" There are women enough to smile 
when they come, 
Enough to watch and pray 
For those who never were lost from 
home. 
And never were out of the way. 

"And hard it were if there were not 
some 
To love and welcome back 
The poor misguided souls who have 
gone 
Aside from the beaten track. 

" And if a clear and steady light 
In my home had always shone, 

My own good boy had sat to-night 
By the hearth, where I sit alone. 

" But alas ! there was no faintest spark 
The night when he should have 
come ; 
And what had he, when the pane was 
dark. 
To guide his footsteps home ? 

" But since, each night that comes and 
goes. 
My beacon fires I burn ; 
For no one knows but he lives, nor 
knows 
The time when he may return ! " 

"And a lonesome life you must have 
had. 
Good neighbor, but tell me, pray, 
How old when he went was your little 
lad .? 
And how long has he been away .'"' 

" 'T is thirty years, by my reckoning, 
Since he sat here last with me ; 

And he was but twenty in the spring,—* 
He was only a boy, you see ! 

"And though never yet has my fire 
been low, 
Nor my lamp in the window dim, 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



2\\ 



It seems not long to be waiting so, 
Nor much to do for him ! 

" And if mine eyes may see the lad 
But in death, 't is enough of joy ; 

What mother on earth would not be 
glad 
To wait for such a boy ! 

" You think 't is long to watch at home, 
Talking with fear and doubt ! 

But long is the time that a son may 
roam 
Ere he tire his mother out ! 

" And if you had seen my good boy go, 

As I saw him go from home, 
With a promise to come at night, you 
would know 
That, some good night, he would 
come." 

" But suppose he perished where never 
pass 
E'en the feet of the hunter bold. 
His bones might bleach in the prairie 
grass 
Unseen till the world is old ! " 

" Aye, he might have died : you answer 
well 
And truly, friend, he might ; 
And this good old earth on which we 
dwell 
Might come to an end to-night ! 

" But I know that here in its place, in- 
stead, 
It will firm and fast remain ; 
And I know that my son, alive or 
dead, 
Will return to me again ! 

" So your idle fancies have no power 

To move me or appall ; 
He is likelier now to come in an hour 

Than never to come at all ! 

* And he shall find me watching yet, 

Return whenever he may ; 
My house has been in order set 

For his coming many a day. 

" You were rightly shamed if his young 
feet crossed 
That threshold stone to-night, 



For your foolish words, that he might 
be lost, 
And his bones be hid from sight ! 

" And oh, if I heard his light step fall. 
If I saw him at night or morn 

Far off, I should know my son from all 
The sons that ever were born. 

" And, hark ! there is something strange 
about, 
For my dull old blood is stirred : 
That was n't the feet of the storm with- 
out. 
Nor the voice of the storm I heard ! 

" It was but the wind ! nay, friend, be 
still. 
Do you think that the night wind's 
breath 
Through my very soul could send a 
thrill 
Like the blast of the angel, Death .'' 

" 'T is my boy ! he is coming home, he 
is near 
Or I could not hear him pass ; 
For his step is as light as the step of the 
deer 
On the velvet prairie grass. 

" How the tempest roars ! how my cabin 
rocks ! 
Yet I hear him through the din ; 
Lo ! he stands without the door — he 
knocks — 
I must rise and let him in ! " 

She rose, she stood erect, serene ; 

She swiftly crossed the floor ; 
And the hand of the wind, or a hand 
unseen, 

Threw open wide the door. 

Through the portal rushed the cruel 
blast. 
With a wail on its awful swell ; 
As she cried, " My boy, you have come 
at last ! " 
And prone o'er the threshold fell. 

And the stranger heard no other sound, 

Ani saw no form apjiear ; 
But whoever came at the midnight 
found 

Her lamp was burning clear ! 



POEMS 



THOUGHT AND FEELING. 



A WEARY HEART. 

Ve winds, that talk among the pines, 
In pity whisper soft and low ; 

And from my trailing garden vines. 
Bear the faint odors as ye go ; 

Take fragrance from the orchard trees. 
From the meek violet in the dell ; 

Gather the honey that the bees 
Had left you in the lily's bell ; 

Pass tenderly as lovers pass, 

Stoop to the clover-blooms your 
wings, 
Find out the daisies in the grass. 

The sweets of all insensate things ; 

With muffled feet, o'er beds of flow- 
ers, 
Go through the valley to the height. 
Where frowning walls and lofty tow- 
ers 
Shut in a weary heart to-night ; 

Go comfort her, who fain would give 
Her wealth below, her hopes above, 

For the wild freedom that ye have 
To kiss the humblest flower ye love ! 



COMING HOME. 

O BROTHERS and sisters, growing old. 

Do you all remember yet 
That home, in the shade of the rustling 
trees, 

Where once our household met ? 

Do you know how we used to come 
from school, 
Through the summer's pleasant heat ; 



With the yellow fennel's golden dust 
On our tired little feet .-' 

And how sometimes in an idle mood 

We loitered by the way ; 
And stopped in the woods to gather 
flowers 

And in the fields to play ; 

Till warned by the deep'ning shadows' 
fall, 
That told of the coming night, 
We climbed to the top of the last, long 
hill, 
And saw our home in sight ! 

And, brothers and sifters, older now 
Than she whose life is o'er. 

Do you think of the mother's loving 
face. 
That looked from the open door ? 

Alas, for the changing things of time ; 

That home in the dust is low ; 
And that loving smile was hid from us, 

In the darkness, long ago ! 

And we have come to life's last hill, 
From which our weary eyes 

Can almost look on the home that 
shines 
Eternal in the skies. 

So, brothers and sisters, as we go. 

Still let us move as one. 
Always together keeping step. 

Till the march of life is done. 

For that mother, who waited for us 
here, . 

Wearing a smile so sweet, 
Now waits on the hills of paradise 

For her children's coming feet 1 



POEMS OF THOUGHT AND FEELING. 



233 



HIDDEN SORROW. 

He has gone at last ; yet I could not 
see 

When he passed to his final rest ; 
For he dropped asleep as quietly 

As the moon drops out of the west. 

And I only saw, though I kept my 
place, 

That his mortal life was o'er. 
By the look of peace across his face, 

That never was there before. 

Sorrow he surely had in the past, 
Yet he uttered never a breath ; 

His lips were sealed in life as fast 
As you see them sealed in death. 

Why he went from the world I do not 
know. 

Hiding a grief so deep ; 
But I think, if he ever had told his woe, 

He had found a better sleep. 

For our trouble must some time see the 
light, 

And our anguish will have way ; 
And the infant, crying out in the night. 

Reveals what it hid by day. 

And just like a needful, sweet relief 
To that bursting heart it seems. 

When the little child's unspoken grief 
Runs into its pretty dreams. 

And I think, though his face looks 
hushed and mild, 

And his slumber seems so deep. 
He will sob in his grave, as a little child 

Keeps sobbing on in its sleep. 



A WOMAN'S CONCLUSIONS. 

I SAID, if I might go back again 
To the very hour and place of my 
birth ; 

Might have my life whatever I chose, 
And live it in any part of the earth ; 

Put perfect sunshine into my sky, 
Banish the shadow of sorrow and 
doubt ; 

Have all my happiness multiplied. 
And all my suffering stricken out ; 



If I could have known in the years now 
gone. 
The best that a woman comes to 
know ; 
Could have had whatever will make her 
blest. 
Or whatever she thinks will make hei 
so ; 

Have found the highest and purest bliss 
That the bridal-wreath and ring in- 
close ; 
And gained the one out of all the world, 
That my heart as well as my reason 
chose ; 

And if this had been, and I stood to- 
night 
By my children, lying asleep in their 
beds 
And could count in my prayers, for a 
rosary, 
The shining row of their golden 
heads ; 

Yea ! I said, if a miracle such as this 
Could be wrought for me, at my bid- 
ding, still 

I would choose to have my past as it is, 
And to let my future come as it will ! 

I would not make the path I have 
trod 
More pleasant or even, more straight 
or wide ; 
Nor change my course the breadth of a 
hair, 
This way or that way, to either side- 

My past is mine, and I take it all ; 

Its weakness — its folly, if you please ; 
Nay, even my sins, if you come to that, 

May have been my helps, not hin- 
drances ! 

If I saved my body from the flames 
Because that once I had burned my 
hand ; 
Or kept myself from a greater sin 
By doing a less — you will under- 
stand ; 

It was better I suffered a little pain. 

Better I sinned for a little time. 
If the smarting warned me back from 
death. 
And the sting of sin withheld from 
crime. 



234 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE GARY. 



Who knows his strength, by trial, will 
know 
What strength must be set against a 
sin ; 
And how temptation is overcome 

He has learned, who has felt its power 
within ! 

And who knows how a life at the last 
may show ? 
Why, look at the moon from where 
we stand ! 
Opaque, uneven, you say; yet it shines, 
A luminous sphere, complete and 
grand ! 

So let my past stand, just as it stands. 
And let me now, as I may, grow 
old; 

I am what I am, and my life for me 
Is the best — or it had not been, I hold. 



ANSWERED. 

I THOUGHT to find some healing clime 
For her I loved ; she found that shore. 

That city, whose inhabitants 
Are sick and sorrowful no more. 

I asked for human love for her ; 

The Loving knew how best to still 
The infinite yearning of a heart. 

Which but infinity could fill. 

Such sweet communion had been ours 
I prayed that it might never end ; 

My prayer is more than answered ; 
now 
I have an angel for my friend. 

I wished for perfect peace, to soothe 
The troubled anguish of her breast ; 

And, numbered with the loved and called. 
She entered on untroubled rest. 

Life was so fair a thing to her, 
I wept and pleaded for its stay. 

My wish was granted me, for lo ! 
She hath eternal life to-day. 



DISENCHANTED. 

The time has come, as I knew it must, 
She said, when we should part, 



But I ceased to love when I ceased ^o 
trust. 
And you cannot break my heart 

Nay, I know not even if I am sad, 
And it must be for the best, 

Since you only take what I thought 1 
had, 
And leave to me the rest. 

Not all the stars of my hope are set. 

Though one is in eclipse ; 
And I know there is truth in the wide 
world yet 

If it be not on your lips. 

And though I have loved you, who can 
tell 

If you ever had been so dear. 
But that my heart was prodigal 

Of its wealth, and you were near. 

I brought each rich and beautiful thing 
From my love's great treasury ; 

And I thought in myself to make a king 
With the robes of royalty. 

But you lightly laid my honors down. 
And you taught me thus to know, 

Not every head can wear the crown 
That the hands of love bestow. 

So, take whatever you can from me. 

And leave me as you will ; 
The dear romance and the poesy 

Were mine, and I have them still. 

I have them still ; and even now. 
When my fancy has her way. 

She can make a king of such as thou, 
Or a god of common clay. 



ALAS! 



Since, if you stood by my side to-day, 
Only our hands could meet. 

What matter that half the weary world 
Lies out between our feet ; 

That I am here by the lonesome sea, 
You by the pleasant Rhine .' — 

Our hearts were just as far apart 
If I held your hand in mine ! 

Therefore,with never a backward glanc^ 
I leave the past behind j 



POEMS OF THOUGHT AND FEE LING. \ 



235 



A.nd standing here by the sea alone, 
I give it to the wind. 

I give it all to the cruel wind, 
And I have no word to say ; 

Yet, alas ! to be as we have been, 
And to be as we are to-day ! 



MOTHER AND SON. 

Brightly for him the future smiled. 

The world v.-as all untried ; 
He had been a boy, almost a child, 

In your household till he died. 

And you saw him, young and strong 
and fair, 

But yesterday depart ; 
And you now know he is lying there 

Shot to death through the heart ! 

Alas, for the step so proud and true 
That struck on the war-path's track ; 

Alas, to go, as he went from you. 
And to come, as they brought him 
back ! 

One shining curl from that bright young 
head. 
Held sacred in your home, 
Is all you will have to keep in his 
stead 
In the years that are to come. 

You may claim of his beauty and his 
youth 

Only this little part — 
It is not much with which to stanch 

The wound in a mother's heart ! 

It is not much with which to dry 

The bitter tears that flow ; 
Not much in your empty hands to lie 

As the seasons come and go. 

Yet he has not lived and died in vain. 

For proudly you may say 
Ue has left a name, with never a stain 

For your tears to wash away. 

And evermore shall your life be blest. 
Though your treasures now are few, 

Since you gave for your country's good 
the best 
God ever gave to you ! 



THEODORA. 

By that name you will not know her, 
But if words of mine can show her 
In such way that you may see 
How she doth appear to me ; 
If, attending you shall find 
The fair picture in my mind, 
You will think this title meetest, 
Gift of God, the best and sweetest. 

All her free, impulsive acting. 
Is so charming, so distracting, 
Lovers think her made, I know. 
Only for a play-fellow. 
Coral lips, concealing pearls, 
Hath she, 'twixt dark rows of curls ; 
And her words, dropt soft and slowlyj 
Seem half ravishing, half holy. 

She is for a saint too human, 
Yet too saintly for a woman ; 
Something childish in her face 
Blended with maturer grace. 
Shows a nature pure and good. 
Perfected by motherhood ; — 
Eyes Madonna-like, love-laden. 
Holier than befit a maiden. 

Simple in her faith unshrinking. 
Wise as sages in her thinking ; 
Showing in her artless speech 
All she of herself can teach ; 
Hiding love and thought profound, 
In such depths as none may sound ; 
One, though known and comprehended 
Yet with wondrous mystery blended. 

Sitting meekly and serenely, 
Sitting in a state most queenly ; 
Knowing, though dethroned, dis- 
crowned, 
That her kingdom shall be found ; 
That her Father's child must be 
Heir of immortality ; 
This is still her highest merit, 
That she ruleth her own spirit. 

Thou to whom is given this treasure, 
Guard it, love it without measure ; 
If forgotten it should lie 
In a weak hand carelessly. 
Thou mayst wake to miss and weep, 
That which thou didst fail to keep; 
Crying, when the gift is taken, 
" I am desolate, forsaken 1 " 



236 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE GARY. 



UP AND DOWN. 

The sun of a sweet summer morning 

Smiled joyously down from the sky, 
As we climbed up the mountain to- 
gether, — 
My charming companion and I ; 
The wild birds that live in the bushes 
Sang love, without fear or disguise, 
And the flowers, with soft, blushing 
faces, 
Looked love from their wide-open 
eyes. 

In and out, through the sunshine and 
shadow, 
We went where the odors are sweet ; 
And the pathway that led from the val- 
ley 
Was pleasant and soft to our feet : 
And while we were hopefully talking — 
For our hearts and our thoughts 
seemed in tune — 
Unaware, we had climbed to the sum- 
mit, 
And the sun of the morning, to noon. 

For my genial and pleasant compan- 
ion 
Was so kind and so helpful the while, 
That I felt how the path of a life-time 
Might be brightened and cheered by 
his smile ; 
And how blest, with his care and his 
guidance, 
Some true, loving woman might be, — 
Of course never hoping or wishing 
Such fortune would happen to me ! 

We spoke of life, death, truth, and 
friendship, — 

Things hoped for, below and above. 
And then sitting down at the summit, 

We talked about loving, and love ; 
And he told me the years of his life- 
time 

Till now had been barren and drear, 
In tones that were touching and tender 

As exquisite music to hear. 

And I saw in the ey s looking on me, 
A meaning that cciuld not be hid, 

Till I blushed — oh, it makes me so 
angry. 
Even now, to remember I did ! — 

As, taking my hand, he drew nearer. 
And said, in his tenderest tone, 



'T was like the dear hand that so often 
Had lovingly lain in his own. 

And that, 't was not flattery only, 

But honest and merited praise. 
To say I resembled his sweetheart 

Sometimes in my words and my ways. 
That I had the same womanly feelings, 

My thoughts were as noble and high ; 
But that she was a trifle, say, fairer. 

And a year or two younger than I. 

Then he told me my welfare was dearer 

To him than I might understand. 
And he wished he knew any one worthy 

To claim such a prize as my hand ; 
And his darling, I surely must love her. 

Because she was charming and good. 
And because she had made him so 
happy ; 

And I said I was sure that I should — 

That nothing could make me so happy 

As seeing him happy ; but then 
I was wretchedly tired and stupid. 

And wished myself back in the glen. 
That the sun, so delightful at morning, 

Burned now with a merciless flame ; 
And I dreaded again to go over 

The long, weary way that we came. 

So we started to go down the mount- 
ain ; 
But the wild birds, the poor silly 
things, 
Had finished their season of courting, 
And put their heads under their 
wings ; 
And the flowers that opened at morning, 

All blushing with joy and surprise. 
Had turned from the sun's burning 
glances. 
And sleepily shut up their eyes. 

Everything I had thought so delightful 

Was gone, leaving scarcely a trace ; 
And even my charming companion 

Grew stupid and quite commonplace. 
He was not the same man that J 
thought him — 

I can't divine why ; but at once. 
The fellow who had been so charming 

Was changed from a dear to a dunce 

But if any young man needs advising, 
Let me whisjjer a word in his ear : — 

Don't talk of the lady that 's absent 
Too much to the lady that 's near. 



POEMS OF THOUGHT AND FEELING. 



237 



My kindness is disinterested ; 

So in speaking to me never mind ; 
But the course I advise you to follow 

Is safe, as a rule, you will find. 

You may talk about love in the abstract, 

Say the ladies are charming and dear ; 
But you need not select an example, 

Nor say she is there, or is here. 
When it comes to that last applica- 
tion, 

Just leave it entirely out, 
And give to the lady that 's present 

The benefit still of the doubt ! 



BEYOND. 

When you would have sweet flowers to 

smell and hold. 
You do not seek them underneath the 

cold 
Close-knitted sod, that hides away the 
mould ; . 
Where in the spring-time past 
The precious seed was cast. 

Not down, but up, you turn your eager 

eyes ; 
You find in summer the fair flowery 

prize 
On the green stalk, that reaches towards 
the skies, 
And, bending down its top, 
Gather the fragrant crop. 

If you would find the goal of some pure 

rill. 
That, following her unrestrained will. 
Runs laughing down the bright slope of 
the hill. 
Or, with a serious mien. 
Walks through the valley green, 

You do not seek the spot where she 

was born, 
The cavernous mountain chamber, dim, 

forlorn. 
That never saw the fair face of the 
morn, 
Where she, with wailing sound, 
First started from the ground ; 

But rather will you track her windings 

free, 
To where at last she rushes eagerly 
Into the white arms of her love, the sea, 



And hides in his embrace 
The rapture on her face ! 

If, from the branches of a neighboring 

tree, 
A bird some morn were missing sud- 
denly. 
That all the summer sang for ecstasv. 
And made your season seem 
Like a melodious dream. 

You would not search about the leafless 

dell, 
In places where the nestling used to 

dwell. 
To find the white walls of her broken 
shell. 
Thinking your child of air, 
Your winged joy, was there ! 

But rather, hurrying from the autumn 

gale. 
Your feet would follow summer's flow- 
ery trail 
To find her spicy grove, and odorous 
vale ; 
Knowing that birds and song 
To pleasant climes belong. 

Then wherefore, when you see a soul 

set free 
From this poor seed of its mortality, 
And know you sow not that which is 
to be. 
Watch you about the tomb, 
For the immortal bloom ? 

Search for your flowers in the celestial 

grove, 
Look for your precious stream of hu- 
man love 
In the unfathomable sea above ; 
Follow your missing bird 
Where songs are always heard ! 



FAVORED. 

Upon her cheek such color glows, 
And in her eye such light appears, 

As comes, and only comes to those, 
Whose hearts are all untouched by 
years. 

Yet half her wealth she doth not see, 
Nor half the kindness Heaven hatb 

shown, 



238 



THE POEMS OF FHCEBE GARY. 



She never felt the poverty 

Of souls less favored than her own. 

When all is hers that life can give, 
How can she tell how drear it seems 

To those, uncomforted, who live 

In dreaming of their vanished dreams. 

Supplied beyond her greatest need 
With lavish hoard of love and trust, 

How shall she pity such as feed 

On hearts that years have turned to 
dust ? 

When sighs are smothered down, and 
lost 

In tenderest kisses ere they start, 
What knows she of the bitter cost 

Of hiding sorrow in the heart } > 

While fondest care each wish sup- 
plies, 
And heart-strings for her frowning 
break, 
What can she know of one who dies 
For love she scarcely deigns to 
take ? 

What should she know ? No weak 
complaint, 

No cry of pain should come to her, 
If mine were all the woes I paint. 

And she could be my comforter ! 



WOMEN. 

'T IS a sad truth, yet 't is a truth 
That does not need the proving : 

They give their hearts away, unasked, 
And are not loved for loving. 

Striving to win a little back, 
For all they feel they hide it ; 

And lips that tremble with their love. 
In trembling have denied it. 

Sometimes they deem the kiss and smile 
Is life and love's beginning ; 

While he who wins the heart away. 
Is satisfied with winning. 

Sometimes they think they have not 
found 

The right one for their mating ; 
And go on till the hair is white. 

And eyes are blind with waiting. 



And if the mortal tarry still. 
They fill their lamps, undying ; 

And till the midnight wait to hear 
The " Heavenly Bridegroom " 
ing. 



cry I 



For while she lives, the best of them 
Is less a saint than woman ; 

And when her lips ask love divine, 
Her heart asks love that 's human ! 



THE ONLY ORNAMENT. 

Even as a child too well she knew 
Her lack of loveliness and grace ; 

So, like an unprized weed she grew, 
Grudging the meanest flower its face. 

Often with tears her sad eyes filled, 
Watching the plainest birds that went 

About her home to pair, and build 
Their humble nests in sweet content. 

No melody was in her words ; 

You thought her, as she passed along, 
As brown and homely as the birds 

She envied, but without their song. 

She saw, and sighed to see how glad 
Earth makes her fair and favored 
child ; 

While all the beauty that she had 
Was in her smile, nor oft she smiled. 

So seasons passed her and were gone. 
She musing by herself apart ; 

Till the vague longing that is known 
To woman came into her heart. 

That feeling born when fancy teems 
With all that makes this life a good. 

Came to her, with its wondrous dreams, 
That bless and trouble maidenhood. 

She would have deemed it joy to sit 
In any home, or great or small. 

Could she have hoped to brighten it 
For one who thought of her at all. 

At night, or in some secret place. 
She used to think, with tender pain, 

How infants love the mother's face. 
And know not if 't is fair or plain. 

She longed to feast her hungry eyes 
On anything her own could please; 




' Or cling to you in perfect trust." Page 239. 



POEMS OF THOUGHT AND FEELING. 



239 



To sing soft, loving lullabies 
To children lying on her knees. 

And yet beyond the world she went, 
Unmissed, as if she had not been. 

Taking her only ornament, 
A meek and quiet soul within. 

None ever knew her heart was pamed, 
Or that she grieved to live unsought ; 

They deemed her cold and self-con- 
tained, 
Contented in her realm of thought. 

Her patient life, when it was o'er, 
Was one that all the world approved ; 

Some marveled at, some pitied her. 
But neither man nor woman loved. 

Even little children felt the same ; 

Were shy of her, from awe or fear ; — 
I wonder if she knew they came. 

And scattered roses on her bier ! 



EQUALITY. 

Most favored lady in the land, 

I well can bear your scorn or pride; 

For in all truest wealth, to-day, 
I stand an equal by your side ! 

No better parentage have you, — 
One is our Father, one our Friend ; 

The same inheritance awaits 

Our claiming, at the journey's end. 

No broader flight your thought can 
take, — 

Faith on no firmer basis rest ; 
Nor can the dreams of fancy wake 

A sweeter tumult in your breast. 

Life may to you bring every good. 
Which from a Father's hand can 
fall; 

But if true lips have said to me, 
" I love you," I have known it all ! 



EBB-TIDE. 

With her white face full of agony, 
Under her dripping locks, 

I hear the wretched, restless sea, 
Complaining to the rocks. 



Helplessly in her great despair. 

She shudders on the sand, 
The bright weeds dropping from her 
hair, 

And the pale shells from her hand. 

'T is pitiful thus to see her lie, 
With her beating, heaving breast. 

Here, where she fell, when cast aside, 
Sobbing herself to rest. 

Alas, alas ! for the foolish sea, 
Why was there none to say : 

The wave that strikes on the heartless 
stone 
Must break and fall away ? 

Why could she not have known that 
this 
Would be her fate at length ; — 
For the hand, unheld, must slip at 
last. 
Though it cling with love's own 
strength ? 



HAPPY WOMEN. 

Impatient women, as you wait 
In cheerful homes to-night, to hear 

The sound of steps that, soon or late, 
Shall come as music to your ear ; 

Forget yourselves a little while, 
And think in pity of the pain 

Of women who will never smile 
To hear a coming step again. 

With babes that in their cradle sleep, 
Or cling to you in perfect trust ; 

Think of the mothers left to weep, 
Their babies lying in the dust. 

And when the step you wait for 
comes. 

And all your world is full of light, 
O women, safe in happy homes. 

Pray for all lonesome souls to-night 1 



LOSS AND GAIN. 

Life grows better every day. 
If we live in deed and truth; 

So I am not used to grieve 
For the vanished joys of youth. 



240 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE CARV. 



For though early hopes may die, 
Early dreams be rudely crossed ; 

Of the past we still can keep 

Treasures more than we have lost. 

For if we but try to gain 

Life's best good, and hold it fast. 
We grow very rich in love 

Ere our mortal days are past. 

Rich in golden stores of thought, 
Hopes that give us wealth untold ; 

Rich in all sweet memories, 
That grow dearer, growing old. 

For when we have lived and loved, 

Tasted suffering and bliss. 
All the common things of life 

Have been sanctified by this. 

What my eyes behold to-day 
Of this good world is not all, 

Earth and sky are crowded full 
Of the beauties they recall. 

When I watch the sunset now. 
As its glories change and glow, 

I caji see the light of suns 
That were faded long ago. 

When I look up to the stars, 

I find burning overhead 
All the stars that ever shone 

In the nights that now are dead. 

And a loving, tender word. 

Dropping from the lips of truth, 

Brings each dear remembered tone 
Echoing backward from my youth. 

When I meet a human face,. 

Lit for me with light divine, 
I recall all loving eyes 

That have ever answered mine. 

Therefore, they who were my friends 
Never can be changed or old ; 

For the beauty of their youth 

Fond remembrance well can hold. 

And even they whose feet here crossed 
O'er the noiseless, calm abyss, 

To the better shore which seemed 
Once so far away from this ; 

Are to me as dwelling now 
Just across a pleasant stream, 



Over which they come and go, 
As we journey in a dream. 



A PRAYER. 

I ASK not wealth, but power to take 
And use the things I have aright, 

Not years, but wisdom that shall mak« 
My life a profit and delight. 

I ask not that for me, the plan 
Of good and ill be set aside ; 

But that the common. lot of man 
Be nobly borne, and glorified. 

I know I may not always keep 

My steps in places green and sweet, 

Nor find the pathway of the deep 
A path of safety for my feet ; 

But pray, that when the tempest's 
breath 

Shall fiercely sweep my way about, 
I make not shipwreck of my faith 

In the unbottomed sea of doubt ; 

And that, though it be mine to know 
How hard the stoniest pillow seems, 

Good angels still may come and go. 
About the places of my dreams. 

I do not ask for love below. 

That friends shall never be estranged; 
But for the power of loving, so 

My heart may keep its youth un- 
changed. 

Youth, joy, wealth — Fate I give theo 
these ; 

Leave faith and hope till life is past ; 
And leave my heart's best impulses 

Fresh and unfailing to the last ! 



MEMORIAL. 

Toiling early, and toiling late. 
Though her name was never heard. 

To the least of her Saviour's little 
ones. 
She meekly ministered, — 

Publishing good news to the poor ; 
She came to their homes unsough* 



POEMS OF THOUGHT AND FEELING. 



241 



And her feet on the hills were beautiful, 
For the blessings which they brought. 

Such a perfect life as hers, again. 
In the world we may not see ; 

For her heart was full of love, and her 
hands 
Were full of charity. 

Oh woe for us ! cried the weak and 
]5oor, 

And the weary ones made moan ; 
And the mourners went about the streets, 

When she went to her home alone. 

And, seeing her go from the field of life. 
From toiling, early and late, 

We said, What good has she gained, to 
show 
For a sacrifice so great ? 

W© might have learned from the hus- 
bandman 
To VTait more patiently, 
Since his seed of wheat lies under the 
snow, 
Not quickened, except it die. 

For when we raised our eyes again 
From their sorrow's wintry night. 

We saw how the deeds of good she hid 
Were pushing up to the light. 

And still the precious seed she showed. 

In patient, sorrowing trust. 
Though not for her mortal eyes to see. 

Comes blossoming out of the dust. 



Yet only asks that she may keep 
The harmless luxury of dreams. 

Thankful that, though her life has lost 
The best it hoped, the best it willed. 

Her sweetest dream has not been 
crossed. 
Or worse — but only half fulfilled. 

And that beside her still, to wile 
■ Her thought from sad and sober 

truth. 
Are Hope and Fancy, all the while 
Feeding her heart's eternal youth. 

And who shall say that they who close 
Their eyes to Hope and Fancy's 
beams. 
Are living truer lives than those. 

The dreamers, who believe their 
dreams. 



THE HARMLESS LUXURY. 

Her skies, of whom I sing, are hung 
With sad clouds, dropping saddest 
tears ; 
Yet some white days, like pearls, are 
strung 
Upon the dark thread of her years. 

And as remembrance turns to slip 
Through fingers fond the treasures 
rare, 

Ever her thankful heart and lip 
Run over into song and prayer. 

With joys more exquisite and deep 
Than hers she knows this good world 
teems, 



TRIED AND TRUE. 

Our life is like a march, where some 
Fall early from the ranks, and die ; 

And some, when times of conflict come, 
Go over to the enemy. 

And he who halts upon the way — 
Wearied in spirit and in frame — 

To call his roll of friends, will find 
How few make answer to their name f 

And those who share our youth and 

joy. 

Not always keep our love and trust, 
When days of awful anguish bow 
Our heads with sorrow to the dust. 

My friend ! in such a fearful hour. 
When heart and spirit sank dismayed, 

From thee the words of comfort came — 
From thee, the true and tender aid. 

Therefore, though many another friend 
With youth and youthful pleasure 
goes. 

Thou art of such as I would have 
Walk with me till life's solemn close. 

Yea, with me when earth's trials are 
done, — 

If I be found, when these shall cease, 
Worthy to stand with those who wear 

White raiment on the hills of peace. 



242 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE GARY. 



PEACE. 

O Land, of every land the best — 
O Land, whose glory shall increase ; 

Now in your whitest raiment drest 
For the great festival of peace : 

Take from your flag its fold of gloom, 
And let it float undimmed above, 

Till over all our vales shall bloom 
The sacred colors that we love. 

On mountain high, in valley low, 
Set Freedom's living fires to burn 

Until the midnight sky shall show 
A redder pathway than the morn. 

Welcome, with shouts of joy and pride, 
Your veterans from the war-path's 
track ; 

You gav€ your boys, untrained, untried ; 
You bring them men and heroes back ! 

And shed no tear, though think you 
must 

With sorrow of the martyred band ; 
Not even for him whose hallowed dust 

Has made our prairies holy land. 

Though by the places where they fell, 
The places that are sacred ground, 

Death, like a sullen sentinel. 
Paces his everlasting round. 

Yet when they set their country free 
And gave her traitors fitting doom, 

They left their last great enemy, 
Baffled, beside an empty tomb. 

Not there, but risen, redeemed, they go 
Where all the paths are sweet with 
flowers ; 

They fought to give us peace, and lo ! 
They gained a better peace than ours. 



SUNSET. 

Away in the dim and distant past 

That little valley lies. 
Where the clouds that dimmed life's 
morning hours 

Were tinged with hope's sweet dyes. 

That peaceful spot from which I looked 
To the future — unaware 



That the heat and burden of the day 
Were meant for me to bear. 

Alas, alas ! I have borne the heat, 
To the burden learned to bow ; 

For I stand on the top of the hill ol 
life. 
And I see the sunset now ! 

I stand on the top, but I look not back 
To the way behind me spread ; 

Not to the path my feet have trod, 
But the path they still must tread. 

And straight and plain before my gaze 

The certain future lies ; 
But my sun grows larger all the while 

As he travels down the skies. 

Yea, the sun of my hope grows large 
and grand ; 
For, with my childish years, 
I have left the mist that dimmed my 
sight, 
I have left my doubts and fears. 

And I have gained in hope and trust, 
Till the future looks so bright. 

That, letting go of the hand of Faith, 
I walk, at times, by sight. 

For we only feel that faith is life, 
And death is the fear of death, 

When we suffer up to the solemn heights 
Of a true and living faith. 

When we do not say, the dead shall 
rise 

At the resurrection's call ; 
But when we trust in the Lord, and know 

That we cannot die at all ! 



APOLOGY. 

Nay, darling, darling, do not frown. 
Nor call my words unkind ; 

For my speech was but an idle jest, 
As idle as the wind. 

And now that I see your tender heart 
By my thoughtlessness is grieved, 

I suffer both for the pain I gave, 
And the pain that you received. 

For if ever I have a thought of you, 
That cold or cruel seems. 



POEMS OF THOUGHT AND FEELING. 



243 



I have murdered my peace, and robbed 
my sleep 
Of the joy of its happy dreams. 

And when I have brought a cloud of 
grief 

To your sweet face unaware, 
Its shadow covers all my sky 

With the blackness of despair. 

And if in your pillow I have set 
But one sharp thorn, alone. 

That cruel, careless deed, transplants 
A thousand to my own. 

I grieve with your grief, I die in your 
frown. 
In your joy alone I live ; 
And the blow that it pained your heart 
to feel, 
I would break my own to give ! 



THE SHADOW. 

She was so good, we thought before 
she died 
To see new glory on her path de- 
scend ; 
And could not tell, till she had gone in- 
side. 
Why there was darkness at her 
journey's end. 

And then we saw that she had stood, of 

late. 

So near the entrance to that holy 

place, 

That, from the Eternal City's open gate, 

The awful shadow fell across her face. 



MORNING AND AFTERNOON. 

Fair girl, the light of whose morning 
keeps 
The flush of its dawning glow, 
Do you ask why that faded woman 
weeps, 
Whose sun is sinking low ? 

Vou look to the future, on, above, 

She only looks to the past ; 
You are dreaming your first sweet 
dream of love. 

And she has dreamed her last. 



You watch for feet that are yet to tread 
With yours, on a pleasant track j 

She hears but the echoes dull and 
dread 
Of feet that come not back. 

You are passing up the flowery slope 

She left so long ago ; 
Your rainbows shine through the drops 
of hope, 

And hers through the drops of woe. 

Your night in its visions glides away 
And at morn you live them o'er ; 

From her dreams by night and dreams 
by day 
She has waked to dream no more. 

You are reaching forth with spirit glad 
To hopes that are still untried ; 

She is burying the hopes she had. 
That have slipped from her arms and 
died. 

You think of the good, for you in store, 

Which the future yet will send ; 
While she, she knows it were well for 
her 
she made a peaceful end ! 



LIVING BY FAITH. 

When the way we should tread runs 
evenly on, 
And light as of noonday is over it all, 
'Tis strange how our feet will turn 
aside 
To paths where we needs must grope 
and fall ; 

How we suffer, knowing it all the while, 
Some phantom between ourselves and 
the light. 

That shuts in disastrous, strange eclipse. 
The very powers of sense and sight. 

Yet we live so, all of us, I think. 

Hiding whatever of truth we choose. 
And deceiving ourselves with a sub- 
tilty 
That never a soul but our own could 
use. 

We see the love in another's eyes, 
Where our own, reflected, is bacb 
ward sent ; 



244 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE GARY. 



Or we hear a tone, that is not in a 
tone, 
And find a meaning that is not meant. 

We put our faith in the help of those 
Who never have been a help at all ; 
And lean on an object that all the 
while 
We know we are holding back from 
its fall ! 

When words seem thoughtless, or deed 
unkind. 
We are soothed with the kind intent 
instead ; 
And we say of the absent, silent one : 
He is faithful — but he is sick, or 
dead ! 

We have loved some dear familiar 
step, 
That once in its fall was firm and 
clear ; 
And that household music's sweetest 
sound 
Came fainter every day to our ear ; 

And then we have talked of the far- 
away — 
Of the springs to come and the years 
to be, 
When the rose should bloom in our 
dear one's cheek. 
And her feet should tread in the 
meadows free ! 

We have turned from death, to speak 
of life. 
When we knew that earthly hope was 
past ; 
Yet thinking that somehow, God would 
work 
A miracle for us, to the last. 

We have seen the bed of a cherished 
friend 
Pushing daily nearer and nearer, till 
It stood at the very edge of the grave. 
And we looked across and beyond it, 
still. 

Aye, more than this — we have come 
and gazed 
Down where that dear one's mortal 
part 
Was lowered forever away from our 
sight ; 
And we did not die of a broken heart. 



Are we blind ! nay, we know the world 
unknown 
Is all we would make the present 
seem ; 
That our Father keeps, till his own 
good time. 
The things we dream of, and more 
than we dream. 

For we shall not sleep ; but we shall be 
changed ; 
And when that change at the last is 
made, 
We shall bring realities face to face 
With our souls, and we shall not be 
afraid. 



MY LADY. 

As violets, modest, tender-eyed, 
The light of their beauty love to hide 

In deepest solitudes ; 
Even thus to dwell unseen, she chose, 
My flower of womanhood, my rose, 

My lady of the woods ! 

Full of the deepest, truest thought, 
Doing the very things she ought. 

Stooping to all good deeds : 
Her eyes too pure to shrink from such, 
And her hands too clean to fear the 
touch 

Of the sinfulest in his needs. 

There is no line of beauty or grace 
That was not found in her pleasant face. 

And no heart can ever stir, 
With a sense of human wants and needs. 
With promptings unto the holiest deeds, 

But had their birth in her. 

With never a taint of the world's un« 

truth. 
She lived from infancy to youth. 
From youth to womanhood : 
Taking no soil in the ways she trod, 
But pure as she came from the hand of 
God, 
Before his face she stood. 

My sweetest darling, my tenderest carel 
The hardest thing that I have to bear 

Is to know my work is past ; 
That nothing now I can say or do 
Will bring any comfort or aid to you, -^ 

I have said and done the last. 



POEMS OF THOUGHT AND FEELING. 



245 



Vet I know I never was good enough, 
That my tenderest efforts were all too 
rough 
To help a soul so fine ; 
So the lovingest angel among them 

all, 
Whose touches fell, with the softest fall, 
Has pushed my hand from thine ! 



PASSING FEET. 

All these hours she sits and counts. 
As they pass her slow and sad. 

Are the headsmen cutting off 
Every flower of hope she had ; 

And the feet that come and go 
In the darkness past her door. 

If they trod upon her heart, 
Could not pain it any more. 

Friends hastening now to friends, 
Faster as the night grows late ; 

Through all places men can go, 
To all hoijies where women wait. 

Some are pressing through the wood 
Where the path is faint and new ; 

Some strike out a shorter way. 
Across meadows wet with dew. 

Some, along the highway's track, 
Music to their footsteps keep; 

Some are pushing into port. 
From their exile on the deep. 

But the hope she had at eve 

From her wretched soul has fled ; 

For the lamp of love she lit 

Has burned useless, and is dead. 

So the feet that come and go. 
In the darkness past her door. 

If they trod upon her heart 
Could not pain it any more ! 



MY RICHES. 

There is no comfort in the world 
But I, in thought, have known ; 

No bliss for any human heart, 
I have not dreamed my own ; 

And fancied joys may sometimes be 

More real than reality. 



I have a house in which to live, 
Pleasant, and fair, and good, 

Its hearth is crowned with warmth and 
light, 
Its board with daintiest food. 

And I, when tired with care or doubt. 

Go in and shut my sorrows out, 

I have a father, one whose care 
Goes with me where I roam ; 

A mother, waiting anxiously 
To see her child come home ; 

And sisters, from whose tender eyes 

The love m mine hath sweet replies. 

I have a friend, who sees in me 

What none beside can see. 
Not faultless, but as firm and true. 

And pure, as man may be ; 
A friend, whose love is never dim. 
And I can never change to him. 

My boys are very gentle boys. 

And after they are grown. 
They 're nobler, better, braver men 

Than any I have known ! 
And all my girls are fair and good 
From infancy to womanhood 

So with few blessings in the world 

That men can see or name. 
Home, love, and all that love can bring, 

My mind has power to claim ; 
And life can never cease to be 
A good and pleasant thing to me. 



FIGS OF THISTLES. 

As laborers set in a vineyard 

Are we set in life's field. 
To plant and to garner the harvest 

Our future shall yield. 

And never since harvests were ripened. 

Or laborers born, 
Have men gathered figs of the thistle, 

Or grapes of the thorn ! 

Even he who has faithfully scattered 

Clean seed in the ground, 
Has seen, where the green blade was 
growing, 

Tares of evi) abound. 

Our labor ends not with the planting, 
Sure watch must we keep, 



246 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE GARY. 



For the enemy sows in the night-time 
While husbandmen sleep. 

And sins, all unsought and unbidden, 

Take root in the mind ; 
As the weeds grow, to choke up the 
blossoms 

Chance-sown by the wind. 

But no good crop, our hands never 
planted, 
Doth Providence send ; 
Nor doth that which we planted have 
increase 
Till we water and tend. 

By our fruits, whether good, whether 
evil, 

At last are we shown ; 
And he who has nothing to gather, 

By his lack shall be known. 

And no useless creature escapeth 

His righteous reward ; 
For the tree or the soul that is barren 

Is cursed of the Lord ! 



IMPATIENCE. 

Will the mocking daylight never be 
done : 

Is the moon her hour forgetting ? 
O weary sun ! O merciless sun ! 

You have grown so slow in setting ! 

And yet, if the days could come and go 
As fast as I count them over. 

They would seem to me like years, I 
know. 
Till they brought me back my lover. 

Down through the valleys, down to the 
south, 
O west wind, go with fleetness. 
Kiss, with your daintiest kisses, his 
mouth. 
And bring to me all its sweetness. 

Go when he lieth in slumber deep, 
And put your arms about him. 

And hear if he whisper my name in his 
sleep. 
And tell him, I die without him. 

O birds, that sail in the air like ships, 
To me such discord bringing, 



If you heard the sound of my lover's 
lips, 
You would be ashamed of your sing* 
ing! 

O rose, from whose heart such a crim- 
son rain 

Up to your soft cheek gushes. 
You never could show your face again, 

If you saw my lover's blushes ! 

O hateful stars, in hateful skies, 
Can you think your light is tender, 

When you steal it all from my lover's 
eyes, 
And shine with a borrowed splendor 

O sun, going over the western wall, 
If you stay there none will heed you; 

For why should you rise or shine at all 
When he is not here to need you ? 

Will the mocking daylight never be 
done "i 

Is the moon her hour forgetting ? 
O weary sun ! O merciless sun ! 

You have grown so slow in setting ! 



THOU AND I. 

Strange, strange for thee and me. 

Sadly afar ; 
Thou safe beyond, above, 

I 'neath the star ; 
Thou where flowers deathless spring, 

I where they fade ; 
Thou in God's paradise, 

I 'mid time's shade ! 

Thou where each gale breathes balm, 

I tempest-tossed ; 
Thou where true joy is found, 

I where 't is lost ; 
Thou counting ages thine. 

I not the morrow ; 
Thou learning more of bliss, 

I more of sorrow. 

Thou in eternal peace, 

I 'mid earth's strife ; 
Thou where care hath no name, 

I where 't is life ; 
Thou without need of hope, 

I where 't is vain ; 
Thou with wings dropping light; 

I with time's chain. 



POEMS OF THOUGHT AND FEELING. 



247 



Strange, strange for thee and me, 

Loved, loving ever ; 
Thou by Life's deathless fount, 

I near Death's river ; 
Thou winning Wisdom's love, 

I strength to trust ; 
Thou 'mid the seraphim, 

I in the dust ! 



NOBODY'S CHILD. 

Only a newsboy, under the light 
Of the lamp-post plying his trade in 
vain : 
Men are too busy to stop to-night, 
Hurrying home through the sleet and 
rain. 
Never since dark a paper sold ; 

Where shall he sleep, or how be fed "i 
He thinks as he shivers there in the 
cold. 
While happy children are safe abed. 

Is it strange if he turns about 

With angry words, then comes to 
blows, 
When his little neighbor, just sold out, 

Tossing his pennies, past him goes ? 
" Stop ! " — some one looks at him, 
sweet and mild, 
And the voice that speaks is a tender 
one: 



"You should not strike such a little 
child, 
And you should not use such words, 
my son ! " 

Is it his anger or his fears 

That have hushed his voice and 
stopped his arm .' 
"Don't tremble," these are the words 
he hears ; 
" Do you think that I would do you 
harm .'' " 
" It is n't that," and the hand drops 
down ; 
" I would n't care for kicks and 
blows ; 
But nobody ever called me son. 

Because I 'm nobody's child, I 
s'pose." 

O men ! as ye careless pass along, 
Remember the love that has cared 
for you ; 
And blush for the awful shame and 
wrong 
Of a world where such a thing could 
be true ! 
Think what the child at your knee had 
been 
If thus on life's lonely billows tossed ; 
And who shall bear the weight of the 
sin, 
If one of these " little ones " be lost 1 



POEMS 



NATURE AND HOME. 



AN APRIL WELCOME. 

Come up, April, through the valley, 

In your robes of beauty drest, 
Come and wake your flowery children 

From their wintry beds of rest ; 
Come and overblow them softly 

With the sweet breath of the south ; 
Drop upon them, warm and loving, 

Tenderest kisses of your mouth. 

Touch them with your rosy fingers, 

Wake them with your pleasant tread, 
Push away the leaf-brown covers, 

Over all their faces spread ; 
Tell them how the sun is waiting 

Longer daily in the skies. 
Looking for the bright uplifting 

Of their softly-fringed eyes. 

Call the crow-foot and the crocus. 

Call the pale anemone. 
Call the violet and the daisy. 

Clothed with careful modesty ; 
Seek the low and humble blossoms, 

Of their beauties unaware. 
Let the dandelion and fennel, 

Show their shining yellow hair. 

Bid the little homely sparrows 

Chirping, in the cold and rain, 
Their impatient sweet complaining. 

Sing out from their hearts again ; 
Bid them set themselves to mating. 

Cooing love in softest words, 
Crowd their nests, all cold and empty, 

Full of little callow birds. 

Come up, April, through the valley, 
Where the fountain sleeps to-day, 

Let him, freed from icy fetters. 
Go rejoicing on hi'fe way ; 

Tluough the flower-enameled meadows 
i-.ci iiim run his laughing race, 



Making love to all the blossoms 
That o'erlean and kiss his face. 

But not birds and blossoms only, 

Not alone the streams complain, 
Men and maidens too are calling. 

Come up, April, come again ! 
Waiting with the sweet impatience 

Of a lover tor the hours 
They shall set the tender beauty 

Of thy feet among the flowers ! 



MY NEIGHBOR'S HOUSE. 

In the years that now are dead and 
gone — 
Aye, dead, but ne'er forgot — 
My neighbor's stately house looked 
down 
On the walls of my humble cot. 

I had my flowers and trees, 't is true. 
But they looked not fine and tall 

As my neighbor's flowers and trees, that 
grew 
On the other side of the wall. 

Through the autumn leaves his ripe 
fruits gleamed 
With richer tints than mine, 
And his grapes in the summer sun- 
shine seemed 
More full of precious wine. 

Through garden walk and bower I 
stray 

Unbidden now and free ; 
For my neighbor long has passed away. 

And his wealth has come to me. 

I pace those stately halls at last. 
But a darker shadow falls 



POEMS OF NA TURE AND HOME. 



249 



Within the nouse than once it cast 
On my lowly cottage walls. 

I pluck the fruit, the wine I waste, 
I drag through the weary hours ; 

But the fruit is bitter to my taste, 
And I tire of the scent of flowers. 

And I 'd take my poverty instead 
And all that I have resign, 

To feel as I felt when I coveted 
The wealth that now is mine. 



THE FORTUNE IN THE DAISY. 

Of what are you dreaming, my pretty 
maid. 
With your feet in the summer clover .' 
Ah ! you need not hang your modest 
head : 
I know 't is about your lover. 

I know by the blushes on your cheek, 
Though you strive to hide the to- 
ken ; 

And I know because you will not speak, 
The thought that is unspoken. 

You are counting the petals, one by one, 
Of your dainty, dewy posies, 

To find from their number, when 't is 
done. 
The secret it discloses. 

You would see if he comes with gold 
and land — 
The lover that is to woo you ; 
Or only brings his heart and his hand, 
For your heart and your hand to sue 
you. 

Beware, beware, what you say and do. 
Fair maid, with your feet in the clo- 
ver ; 

For the poorest man that comes to woo, 
May be the richest lover ! 

Since not by outward show and sign 
Can you reckon worth's true meas- 
ure, 

Who only is rich in soul and mind 
May offer the greatest treasure. 



Nor strength enough in a jeweled zone 
To hold a heart from breaking. 

Then be not caught by the sheen and 
glare 

Of worldly wealth and splendor ; 
But speak him soft, and speak him fair, 

Whose heart is true and tender. 

You may wear your virtues as a crown. 
As you walk through life serenely ; 

And grace your simple rustic gown 
With a beauty more than queenly — 

Though only one for you shall care, 
One only speak your praises ; 

And you never wear, in your shining 
hair, 
A richer flower than daisies ! 



A PICTURE. 

Her brown hair plainly put away 
Under her broad hat's rustic brim ; 

That threw across her placid brow 
Its veil-like shadow, cool and dim : 

Her shut lips sweet as if they moved 
Only to accents good and true ; 

Her eyes down-dropt, yet bright and 
clear 
As violets shining out of dew : 

And folded close together now 

The tender hands that seemed to 
prove 

Their wondrous fitness to perform 
The works of charitable love. 

Such is her picture, but too fair 
For pencil or for pen to paint ; 

For who could show you all in one 
The child, the woman, and the saint ? 

I needs must fail ; for mortal hand 
Her full completeness may not trace^ 

Whose meek and quiet spirit gives 
Heaven's beauty to an earthly face ! 



FAITH. 



A.h ! there never was power in gems , Dear, gentle Faith ! on the sheltered 
alone porch 

To bind a brow from aching \ > She used to sit by the hour, 



250 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE GARY. 



As still and white as the whitest rose 

That graced the vines of her bower. 
She watched the motes in the sun, the 
bees, 

And the glad birds come and go ; 
The butterflies, and the children bright 

That chased them to and fro. 
She saw them happy, one and all, 

And she said that God was good ; 
Though she never had walked on the 
sweet green grass. 

And, alas ! she never would ! 

She saw the happy maid fulfill 

Her woman's destiny ; 
The trusting bride on the lover's arm, 

And the babe on the mother's knee. 
She folded meek, her empty hands. 

And she blest them, all and each. 
While the treasure that she coveted 

Was put beyond her reach. 

" Yea, if God wills it so," she said, 
" Even so 't is mine to live. 

What to withhold He knoweth best. 
As well as what to give ! " 

At last, for her, the very sight 

Of the good, fair earth was done. 
She could not reach the porch, nor 
see 

The grass, nor the motes in the sun ; 
Yet still her smile of sweet content 

Made heavenly all the place, 
As if they sat about her bed 

Who see the Father's face ; 
For to his will she bent her head. 

As bends to the rain the rose. 
" We know not what is best," she 
said ; 

" We only know He knows ! " 

Poor, crippled Faith ! glad, happy 
Faith ! 
Even in affliction blest ; 
For she made the cross we thought so 
hard 
A sweet support and rest- 
Wise, trusting Faith ! when she gave 
her hand 
To One we could not see. 
She told us all she was happier 

Than we could ever be. 
And we knew she thought how her feet, 
that ne'er 
On the good, green earth had trod, 
Would walk at last on the lily-beds 
That bloom in the smile of God ! 



TO AN ELF ON A BUTTERCUP 

Cunning little fairy, 

Where the breezes blow, 
Rocking in a buttercup, 

Lightly to and fro ; 
Little folks for nothing 

Look not so demure ; 
You are planning mischief, 

I am very sure ! 

You will soon be dancing 

Down beside the spring ; 
On the velvet meadow, 

In a fairy ring ; 
Spoiling where the ewes feed 

All the tender grass ; 
And making charmed circles, 

Mortals dare not pass. 

Darkening light where lovers 

Modest sit apart. 
You will kiss the maiden. 

With your wicked art ; 
Make her think her wooer 

Woefully to blame ; 
Through her frowns and blushes 

Crying out, " For shame !" 

Ah ! my little fairy. 

With your mystic charms, 
You have slipped the infant 

From its mother's arms ; 
And have left a changeling 

In its place at night ; 
While you turned the mortal 

To a tricksy sprite. 

Thus you mi.x folks up so, 

Wicked, willful elf ; 
Never one of us can know 

If he be himself : 
And sitting here and telling 

Of the tricks you do ; 
I wonder whether I am I, 

Or whether I am you 1 



PROVIDENCE. 

" Ah ! what w-ill become of the lily, 
When the summer-time is dead ? 

Must she lay her spotless robes away. 
And hide in the dust her head 1 " 

" My child, the hand that bows her head 
Can lift it up anew; 



POEMS OF NATURE AND HOME. 



251 



And weave another shining robe 
Of sunshine and of dew." 

'■ But, father, what will the sparrows do ? 

Though they chirp so blithe and bold, 
When the shelter of the leaves is gone 

They must perish with the cold." 

" The sparrows are little things, my 
child, 

And the cold is hard to bear ; 
Yet never one of these shall fall 

Without our Father's care." 

" But how will the tender lambs be 
clothed .' 

For you know the shepherd said, 
He must take their fleeces all away. 

For us to wear instead." 

" They are warm enough to-day, my 
child, 

And so soon their fleeces grow. 
They each will have another one 

Before they feel the snow." 

" I know you will keep me, father ; 

That 1 shall be clothed and fed ; 
But suppose that I were lost from 
home, 

Oh, suppose that you were dead ! " 

" My child, there is One who seeks you, 
No matter where you roam ; 

And you may not stray so far away, 
That He cannot bring you home." 

" For you have a better Father, 

In a better home above ; 
And the very hairs of your precious 
head 

Are numbered by his love ! " 



OLD PICTURES. 

Old pictures, faded long, to-night 
Come out revealed by memory's 
gleam ; 

And years of checkered dark and light 
Vanish behind me like a dream. 

I see the cottage, brown and low, 
The rustic porch, the roof-tree's 
shade, 

And all the place where long ago 
A group of happy children played. 



I see the brother, bravest, best. 

The prompt to act, the bold to speak ; 

The baby, dear and honored guest ! 
The timid sister, shy and meek. 

I see her loving face who oft 

Watched, that their slumbers might 
be sweet ; 
And his whose dear hand made so soft 

The path for all their tender feet. 

I see, far off, the woods whose screen 
Bounded the little world we knew ; 

And near, in fairy rings of green, 

The grass that round the door-stones 
grew. 

I watch at morn the oxen come. 
And bow their meek necks to the 
yoke ; 

Or stand at noontide, patient, dumb. 
In the great shadow of the oak. 

The barn with crowded mows of hay, 
And roof upheld by golden sheaves ; 

Its rows of doves, at close of day. 
Cooing together on the eaves. 

I see, above the garden-beds. 

The bee at work with laden wing ; 

The dandelions' yellow heads 

Crowding about the orchard spring ; 

The little, sweet-voiced, homely thrush ; 
The field-lark, with her speckled 
breast ; 
The finches in the currant-bush ; 

And where the bluebirds hid their 
nest. 

I see the comely apple-trees. 

In spring, a-blush with blossoms 
sweet ; 
Or, bending with the autumn breeze, 

Shake down their ripe fruits at our feet 

I see, when hurtling through the air 
The arrows of the winter fly, 

And all the frozen earth lies bare, 
A group about the hearth draw nigh, 

Of little ones that never tire 
Of stories told and told again ; 

I see the pictures in the fire. 

The firelight pictures in the pane. 

I almost feel the stir and buzz 
Of day ; the evening's holy calm ; 



252 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE GARY. 



Yea, all that made me what I was, 
And helped to make me what I am. 

Then lo ! it dies, as died our youth ; 

And things so strange about me seem, 
I know not what should be the truth. 

Nor whether I would wake or dream. 

I have not found to-day so vain, 
Nor yesterday so fair and good, 

That I would have my life again, 
And live it over if 1 could. 

Not every hope for me has proved 
A house on weak foundation built ; 

I have not seen the feet I loved 
Caught in the awful snares of guilt. 

But when I see the paths so hard 
Kept soft and smooth in days gone 
by; 
The lives that years have made or 
marred, 
Out of my loneliness I cry : 

Oh, for the friends that made so bright 
The days, alas ! too soon to wane ! 

Oh, but to be one hour to-night 
Set in their midst, a child again ! 



THE PLAYMATES. 

Two careless, happy children, 

Up when the east was red. 
And never tired and never still 

Till the sun had gone to bed ; 
Helping the winds in winter 

To toss the snows about ; 
Gathering the early flowers, 

When spring-time called them out; 
Playing among the windrows 

Where the mowers mowed the hay ; 
Finding the place where the skylark 

Had hidden her nest away ; 
Treading the cool, damp furrows 

Behind the shining plough ; 
Up in the barn with the swallows, 

And sliding over the mow ; 
Pleased with the same old stories, 

Heard a thousand times ; 
Believing all the wonders 

Written in tales or rh3-mes ; 
Counting the hours in summer 

When even a day seemed long ; 
Counting the hours in winter 

Till the time of leaves and song. 



Thinking it took forever 

For little children to grow, 
And that seventy years of a life-time 

Never could come and go. 
Oh, I know they were happier childreo 

Than the world again may see, 
For one was my little playmate. 

And one, ah ! one was me ! 

A sad-faced man and woman, 

Leagues and leagues apart. 
Doing their work as best they may 

With weary hand and heart ; 
Shrinking from winter's tempests, 

And summer's burning heat ; 
Thinking that skies were brighter 

And flowers were once more sweet ; 
Wondering why the skylark 

So early tries his wings ; 
And if green fields are hidden 

Beyond the gate where he sings ! 
Feeling that tiiiie is slipping 

Faster and faster away ; 
That a day is but as a moment. 

And the years of life as a day ; 
Seeing the heights and places 

Others have reached and won ; 
Sighing o'er things accomplished. 

And things that are left undone ; 
And yet still trusting, somehow. 

In his own good time to become 
Again as little children, 

In their Heavenly Father's home ; 
One crowding memories backward. 

In the busy, restless mart. 
One pondering on them ever. 

And keeping them in her heart ; 
Going on by their separate pathways 

To the same eternity — 
And one of these is my playmate, 

And one, alas ! is me ! 



"THE BAREFOOT BOY." 

Ah ! " Barefoot Boy ! " you have led 
me back 
O'er the waste of years profound. 
To the still, sweet spots, which memory 

Hath kept as haunted ground. 
You have led me back to the western 
hills. 
Where I played through the summer 
hours ; 
And called my little playmate up 
To stand among the flowers. 



POEMS OF NATURE AND HOME. 



253 



We are hand in hand in the fields 
again, 

We are treading through the dew ! 
And not the poet's " barefoot boy," 

Nor him the artist drew, 
Is half so brave and bold and good, 

Though bright their colors glow, 
As the darling playmate that I had 

And lost, so long ago ! 

I touch the spring-time's tender grass, 

I find the daisy buds ; 
I feel the shadows deep and cool. 

In the heart of the summer woods ; 
I see the ripened autumn nuts. 

Like thick hail strew the earth ; 
I catch the fall of the winter snow, 

And the glow of the cheerful hearth ! 

But alas ! my playmate, loved and 
lost. 

My heart is full of tears. 
For the dead and buried hopes, that are 
more 

Than our dead and buried years : 
And I cannot see the poet's rhymes, 

Nor the lines the artist drew. 
But only the boy that held my hand. 

And led my feet through the dew ! 



WINTER FLOWERS. 

Though Nature's lonesome, leafless 
bowers, 
With winter's awful snows are white. 
The tender smell of leaves and flow- 
ers 
Makes May-time in my room to- 
night : 

While some, in homeless poverty. 

Shrink moaning from the bitter blast; 

What am I, that my lines should be 
In good and pleasant places cast ? 

When other souls despairing stand. 
And plead with famished lips to- 
day, 

Why is it that a loving hand 

Should scatter blossoms in my way ? 

O flowers, with soft and dewy eyes. 
To God my gratitude reveal ; 

Send up your incense to the skies. 
And utter, for me, what I feel I 



O innocent roses, in your buds 

Hiding for very modesty ; 
O violets, smelling of the woods. 

Thank Him, with all your sweets for 
me ! 

And tell him, I would give this hour 
All that is mine of good beside. 

To have the pure heart of a flower, 
That has no stain of sin to hide. 



MARCH CROCUSES. 

FICKLE and uncertain March, 
How could you have the heart, 

To make the tender crocuses 
From their beds untimely start ? 

Those foolish, unsuspecting flowers. 

Too credulous to see 
That the sweetest promises of March 

Are not May's certainty. 

When you smiled a few short hours 
ago, 

What said your whisper, light. 
That made them lift their pretty heads 

So hopeful and so bright ? 

1 could not catch a single word, 
But I saw your light caress ; 

And heard your rough voice softened 
down 
To a lover's tenderness. 

O cruel and perfidious month, 

It makes me sick and sad. 
To think how yesterday your smile 

Made all the blossoms glad ! 

O trustful, unsuspecting flowers, 
It breaks my heart to know. 

That all your golden heads to-day 
Are underneath the snow ! 



HOMESICK. 

Comfort me with apples ! 

I am sick unto death, I am sad to de- 
spair ; 

My trouble is more than my strength 
is to bear ; 

Back again to the green hills that first 
met my sight 



254 



7'HE POEMS OF PHCEBE GARY. 



I come, as a child to its mother, to- 
night ; — 
Comfort me with apples ! 

Comfort me with apples ! 

Bring the ripe mellow fruit from the 
early " sweet bough," — 

(Is the tree that we used to climb grow- 
ing there now ?) 

And " russets," whose cheeks are as 
freckled and dun 

As the cheeks of the children that play 
in the sun ; — 
Comfort me with apples ! 

Comfort me with apples ! 
Gather those streaked with red, that we 

named "'morning-light." 
Our good father set, when his hair had 

grown white. 
The tree, though he said when he 

planted the root, 
" The hands of another shall gather the 

fruit ; " — 
Comfort me with apples ! 

Comfort me with apples ! 
Go down to the end of the orchard, and 

bring 
The fair " lady-fingers " that grew by 

the spring ; 
Pale " bell-flowers," and " pippins," all 

burnished with gold, 
Like the fruit the Hesperides guarded 

of old ; — 
Comfort me with apples ! 

Comfort me with apples ! 
Get the sweet "junietta," so loved by 

the bees, 
And the " pearmain," that grew on the 

queen of the trees ; 
And close by the brook, where they 

hang ripe and lush, 
Go and shake down the best of them 

all, — " maiden's-blush ; " — 
Comfort me with apples ! 

Comfort me with apples ! 
For lo ! I am sick ; I am sad and op- 

prest ; 
I come back to the place where, a child, 

I was blest. 
Hope is false, love is vain, for the old 

things I sigh ; 
And if these cannot comfort me, then I 

must die ! 
Comfort me with apples ! 



"FIELD PREACHING." 

I HAVE been out to-day in field and 

wood, 
Listening to praises sweet and counsel 



Such as a little child had understood. 

That, in its tender youth. 
Discerns the simple eloquence of truth. 

The modest blossoms, crowding round 

my way. 
Though they had nothing great or grand 

to say, 
Gave out their fragrance to the wind all 

day ; 
Because his loving breath. 
With soft persistence, won them back 

from death. 

And the right royal lily, putting on 
Her robes, more rich than those of 

Solomon, 
Opened her gorgeous missal in the sun, 

And thanked Him, soft and low, 
Whose gracious, liberal hand had 

clothed her so. 

When wearied, on the meadow-grass I 

sank ; 
So narrow was the rill from which I 

drank. 
An infant might have stepped from 

bank to bank ; 
And the tall rushes near 
Lapping together, hid its waters clear. 

Yet to the ocean joyously it went ; 
And rippling in the fullness of content. 
Watered the pretty flowers that o'er it 
leant ; 
For all the banks were spread 
With delicate flowers that on its bounty 
fed. 

The stately maize, a fair and goodly, 

sight. 
With serried spear-points bristling sharp 

and bright. 
Shook out his yellow tresses, for delight. 

To all their tawny length, 
Like Samson, glorying in his lusty 

strength. 

And every litttle bird upon the tree, 
Rufiling his plumage bright, for ecstasji 
Sang in the wild insanity of glee j 



POEMS OF NATURE AND HOME. 



255 



And seemed, in the same lays, 
Calling his mate and uttering songs of 
praise. 

The golden grasshopper did chirp and 
sing ; 

The plain bee, busy with her housekeep- 
ing, 

Kept humming cheerfully upon the 
wing, 
As if she understood 

That, with contentment, labor was a 
good. 

I saw each creature, in his own best 

place. 
To the Creator lift a smiling face. 
Praising continually his wondrous grace; 

As if the best of all 
Life's countless blessings was to live at 

all ! 

So with a book of sermons, plain and 

true. 
Hid in my heart, where I might turn 

them through, 
I went home softly, through the falling 

dew, 
Still listening, rapt and calm. 
To Nature giving out her evening psalm. 

While, far along the west, mine eyes 

discerned. 
Where, lit by God, the fires of sunset 

burned. 
The tree-tops, unconsumed, to flame 

were turned ; 
And I, in that great hush. 
Talked with his angels in each bumipg 

bush ! 



GATHERING BLACKBERRIES. 

Little Daisy smiling wakes 
From her sleep as m.orning breaks, 

Why, she knoweth well ; 
Yet if you should ask her, surely 
She would answer you demurely. 

That she cannot tell. 

Careful Daisy, with no sound. 
Slips her white feet to the ground. 

Saying, very low. 
She must rise and help her mother, 
A^nd be ready, if her brother 

Needs her aid, to go ! 



Foolish Daisy, o'er her lips 
Only that poor falsehood slips, 

Truth is in her cheeks ; 
Her own words cannot deceive her, 
Her own heart will not believe her 

In a blush it speaks. 

Daisy knows that, when the heat 
Dries the dew upon the wheat. 

She will be away ; 
She and Ernest, just another 
Who, she says, is like a brother. 

Making holiday. 

For the blackberries to-day 
Will be ripe, the reapers say, 

Ripe as they can be ; 
And not wholly for the pleasure. 
But lest others find the treasure. 

She must go and see. 

Eager Daisy, at the gate 
Meeting Ernest, scarce can wait, 

But she checks her heart ; 
And she says, her soft eyes beaming 
Wiih an innocent, grave seeming ; 

" Is it time to start ? " 

Cunning Daisy tries to go 
Very womanly and slow, 

And to act so well 
That, if any one had seen them. 
With the dusty road between them. 

What was there to tell .'' 

Happy Daisy, when they gain 
The green windings of the lane. 

Where the hedge is thick ; 
For they find, beneath its shadow. 
Wild sweet roses in the meadow. 

More than they can pick. 

Bending low, and rising higher, 
Scarlet pinks their lamps of fire 

Lightly swing about ; 
And the wind that blows them over 
Out of sight among the clover, 

Seems to blow them out ! 

Doubting Daisy, as she hies 
Toward the field of berries, cries : 

" What if they be red ? " 
Black and ripe they find them rather. 
Black and ripe enough to gather. 

As the reapers said. 

Lucky Daisy, Ernest finds 
Berries for her in the vines, 



256 



THE POEMS OF rHCEBE GARY. 



Hidden where she stands ; 
And with fearless arm he pushes 
Back the cruel, briery bushes, 

That would hurt her hands. 

He would have her hold her cup 
Just for him to fill it up, 

But away she trips ; 
Picking daintily, she lingers 
Till she dyes her pretty fingers 

Redder than her lips. 

Thoughtful Daisy, what she hears, 
What she hopes, or what she fears. 

Who of us can tell ? 
For if, going home, she carries 
Richer treasure than her berries, 

She will guard it well ! 

Puzzled Daisy does not know 
Why the sun, who rises slow. 

Hurries overhead ; 
He, that lingered at the morning, 
Drops at night with scarce a warning 

On his cloudy bed. 

Ail too narrow at the start 
Seemed the path, they kept apart. 

Though the way was rough ; 
Now the path, that through the hol- 
low 
Closely side by side they follow, 

Seemeth wide enough. 

Hopeful Daisy, will the days 
That are brightening to her gaze 

Brighter grow than this ? 
Will she, mornings without number. 
Wake up restless from her slumber, 

Just for happiness 1 

Will the friend so kind to-day, 
Always push the thorns away. 

With which earth is rife .-' 
Will he be her true, true lover, 
Will he make her cup run over 

With the wine of life ? 

Blessed Daisy, will she be, 
If above mortality 

Thus she stands apart ; 
Cursed, tf the hand, unsparing, 
Let the thorns fly backward, tearing 

All her bleeding heart ! 

Periled Daisy, none can know 

What the future has to show ; 

There must come what must ; 



But, if blessings be forbidden, 
Let the truth awhile be hidden — 
Let her hope and trust. 

Let all women born to weep. 

Their heart's breaking — all who keep 

Hearts still young and whole, 
Pray, as fearing no denying. 
Pray with me, as for the dying. 

For this maiden's soul ! 



OUR HOMESTEAD. 

Our old brown homestead reared its 
walls 
From the way-side dust aloof, 
Where the apple-boughs could almost 
cast 
Their fruit upon its roof; 
And the cherry-tree so near it grew 

That when awake I 've lain 
In the lonesome nights, I 've heard the 
limbs 
As they creaked against the pane ; 
And those orchard trees, oh those or- 
chard trees ! 
I 've seen my little brothers rocked 
In their tops by the summer breeze. 

The sweet-brier, under the window-sill, 

Which the early birds made glad. 
And the damask rose, by the garden- 
fence. 

Were all the flowers we had. 
I 've looked at many a flower since then, 

Exotics rich and rare. 
That to other eyes were lovelier 

But not to me so fair ; 
For those roses bright, oh those roses 
bright ! 

I have twined them in my sister's locks. 
That are hid in the dust from sight. 

We had a well, a deep old well. 

Where the spring was never dry, 
And the cool drops down from the 
mossy stones 
Were fallirig constantly , 
And there never was water half so sweet 

As the draught which filled my cup. 
Drawn up to the curb by the rude old 
sweep 
That my father's hand set up. 
And that deep old well, oh that deep 
old well ! 
I remember now the plashing sound 
Of the bucket as it fell. 



POEMS OF NATURE AND HOME. 



257 



Our homestead had an ample hearth, 

Where at night we loved to meet ; 

There my mother's voice was always 

kind, 

And her smile was always sweet ; 

And there I 've sat on my father's knee, 

And watched his thoughtful brow. 
With my childish hand in his raven 
hair, — 
That hair is silver now '. 
But that broad hearth's light, oh that 
broad hearth's light ! 
And my father's look, and my 
mother's smile, 
They are in my heart to-night ! 



SPRING AFTER THE WAR. 

Come, loveliest season of the year, 
And every quickened pulse shall beat. 

Your footsteps in the grass to hear. 
And feel your kisses, soft and sweet ! 

Come, and bestow new happiness 
Upon the heart that hopeful thrills ; 

Sing with the lips that sing for bliss. 
And laugh with children on the hills. 

Lead dancing streams through mead- 
ows green. 

And in the deep, deserted dells 
Where poets love to walk unseen. 

Plant flowers with all delicious smells. 

To humble cabins kindly go. 

And train your shady vines, to creep 
About the porches, cool and low, 

Where mothers rock their babes to 
sleep. 

But come with hushed and reverent 
tread, 
And bring your gifts, most pure and 
sweet. 
To hallowed places where our dead 
Are sleeping underneath your feet. 

There let the turf be lightly pressed, 
And be your tears that softly flow 

The sweetest, and the sacredest. 
That ever pity shed for woe ! 

Scatter your holiest drop of dew. 
Sing hymns of sacred melody ; 

And keep your choicest flowers to strew 
The places where our heroes lie. 



But most of all, go watch about 

The unknown beds of such as sleep, 

Where love can never find them out. 
Nor faithful friendship come to weep. 

Go where the ocean moans and cries, 
For those her waters hide from sight ; 

And where the billows heave and rise, 
Scatter the flowery foam - wreaths, 
white. 

Aye, all your dearest treasures keep ; 

We shall not miss them, but instead 
Will give them joyfully, to heap 

The holy altars of our dead ! 

The poet from his wood-paths wild, 
I know will take his sweetest flower, 

The mother, singing to her child. 

Will strip the green vines from her 
bower ; 

The poor man from his garden bed 
The unpretending blooms will spare ; 

The lover give the roses red 

He gathered for his darling's hair. 

Yea, all thy gifts we love and prize 
We ask thee reverently to bring. 

And lay them on the darkened eyes, 
That wait their everlasting spring ! 



THE BOOK OF NATURE. 

We scarce could doubt our Father's 
power. 

Though his greatness were untold 
In the sacred record made for us 

By the prophet-bards of old. 

We must have felt his watchfulness 

About us everywhere ; 
Though we had not learned, in the Holy 
Word, 

How He keeps us in his care. 

I almost think we should know his love, 
And dream of his pardoning grace. 

If we never had read how the Saviour 
came. 
To die for a sinful race. 

For the sweetest parables of truth 

In our daily pathway lie, 
And we read, without interpreter, 

The writing on the sky. 



258 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE GARY. 



The ravens, fed when they clamor, teach, 

The human heart to trust ; 
And the rain of goodness speaks, as it 
falls 

On the unjust and the just. 

The sunshine drops, like a leaf of gold, 
From the book of light above ; 

And the lily's missal is written full 
Of the words of a Father's love. 

So, when we turn from the sacred 
page 

Where the holy record lies. 
And its gracious plans and promises 

Are hidden from our eyes ; 

One open volume still is ours, 

To read and understand ; 
And its living characters are writ 

By our Father's loving hand ! 



SUGAR-MAKING. 

The crocus rose from her snowy bed 
As she felt the spring's caresses. 

And the willow from her graceful head 
Shook out her yellow tresses. 

Through the crumbling walls of his icy 
cell 

Stole the brook, a happy rover ; 
And he made a noise like a silver bell 

In running under and over. 

The earth was pushing the old dead 
grass 
With lily hand from her bosom, 
And the sweet brown buds of the sas- 
safras 
Could scarcely hide the blossom. 

And breaking nature's solitude 

Came the axe strokes clearly ringing, 

For the chopper was busy in the wood 
Ere the early birds were singing. 

All day the hardy settler now 
At his tasks was toiling steady ; 

His fields were cleared, and his shining 
plow 
Was set by the furrow ready. 

And down in the woods, where the sun 
appeared 
Through the naked branches breaking. 



His rustic cabin had been reared 
For the time of sugar-making. 

And now, as about it he came and 
went, 
Cheerfully planning and toiling. 
His good child sat there, with eyes in- 
tent 
On the fire and the kettles boiling. 

With the beauty Nature gave as her 
dower, 
And the artless grace she taught 
her. 
The woods could boast no fairer flow- 
er. 
Than Rose, the settler's daughter. 

She watched the pleasant fire anear. 
And her father coming and going. 

And her thoughts were all as sweet and 
clear 
As the drops his pail o'erflowing. 

For she scarce had dreamed of earthly 
ills, 

And love had never found her ; 
She lived shut in by the pleasant hills 

That stood as a guard around her ; 

And she might have lived the self -same 
way 

Through all the springs to follow, 
But for a youth, who came one day 

Across her in the hollow. 

He did not look like a wicked man, 
And yet, when he saw that blossom. 

He said, " I will steal this Rose if I can, 
And hide it in my bosom." 

That he could be tired you had not 
guessed 
Had you seen him lightly walking ; 
But he must have been, for he stopped 
to rest 
So long that they fell to talking. 

Alas ! he was athirst, he said. 

Yet he feared there was no slaking 

The deep and quenchless thirst he had 
For a draught beyond his taking. 

Then she filled the cup and gave to 
him. 

The settler's blushing daughter, 
And he looked at her across the brim 

As he slowly drank the water. 



POEMS OF NATURE AND HOME. 



259 



And he sighed as he put the cup away, 
For lips and soul were drinking ; 

But what he drew from her eyes that day 
Was the sweetest, to his thinking. 

I do not know if her love awoke 

Before his words awoke it ; 
If she guessed at his before he spoke, 

Or not until he spoke it. 

But howsoe'er she made it known, 

And howsoe'er he told her, 
Each unto each the heart had shown 

When the year was little older. 

For oft he came her voice to hear, 
And to taste of the sugar-water ; 

i\nd she was a sectler's wife next year 
Who had been a settler's daughter. 

And now their days are fair and fleet 
As the days of sugar weather, 

While they drink the water, clear and 
sweet, 
Of the cup of life together. 



SPRING FLOWERS.i 

D SWEET and charitable friend. 
Your gift of fragrant bloom 

* The last poem written by Phoebe Gary. 



Has brought the spring-time and the 
woods, 
To cheer my lonesome room. 

It rests my weary, aching eyes, 
Ajid soothes my heart and brain ; 

To see the tender green of the leaves. 
And the blossoms wet with rain. 

I know not which I love the most. 
Nor which the comeliest shows, 

The timid, bashful violet. 
Or the royal-hearted rose : 

The pansy in her purple dress. 
The pink with cheek of red. 

Or the faint, fair heliotrope, who hangs. 
Like a bashful maid, her head. 

For I love and prize you one and all. 
From the least low bloom of spring 

To the lily fair, whose clothes outshine 
The raiment of a king. 

And when my soul considers these, 
The sweet, the grand, the gay, 

I marvel how we shall be clothed 
With fairer robes than they ; 

And almost long to sleep, and rise 
And gain that fadeless shore, 

And put immortal splendor on. 
And live, to die no more. 



POEMS 



LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 



AMY'S LOVE-LETTER. 

Turning some papers carelessly 

That were hid away in a desk un- 
used, 

I came upon something yesterday 
O'er which I pondered and mused : 

A letter, faded now and dim. 

And stained in places, as if by tears ; 
And yet I had hardly thought of him 

Who traced its pages for years. 

Though once the happy tears made dim 
My eyes, and my blushing cheeks 
grew hot. 

To have but a single word from him, 
Fond or foolish, no matter what. 

If he ever quoted another's rhymes, 
Poor in themselves and common- 
place, 

I said them over a thousand times, 
As if he had lent them a grace. 

The single color that pleased his taste 
Was the only one I would have, or 
wear, 

Even in the girdle about my waist 
Or the ribbon that bound my hair. 

Then my flowers were the self-same 
kind and hue ; 

And yet how strangely one forgets — 
I cannot think which one of the two 

It was, or roses or violets ! 

But oh, the visions I knew and nursed, 
While I walked in a world unseen 
before ! 
For my world began when I knew him 
first, 
And must end when he came no 
more. 



We would have died for each other's 
sake, 
Would have given all else in the 
world below ; 
And we said and thought that our 
hearts would break 
When we parted, years ago. 

How the pain as well as the rapture 
seems 
A shadowy thing I scarce recall. 
Passed wholly out of my life and 
dreams. 
As though it had never been at all. 

And is this the end, and is here the 
grave 
Of our steadfast love and our change- 
less faith 
About which the poets sing and rave, 
Naming it strong as death ? 

At least 't is what mine has come to at 

last, 

Stript of all charm and all disguise ; 

And I wonder if, when he thinks of the 

past, 

He thinks we were foolish or wise ? 

Well, I am content, so it matters 
not ; 
And, speaking about him, some one 
said — 
I wish I could only remember what — 
But he 's either married or dead. 



DO YOU BLAME HER.? 

Ne'er lover spake in tenderer words, 
While mine were calm, unbroken ; 

Though I suffered all the pain I gave 
In the No, so firmly spoken. 



POEMS OF LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 



261 



I marvel what he would think of me, 
Who called it a cruel sentence, 

If he knew I had almost learned to-t 
day 
What it is to feel repentance. 

For it seems like a strange perversity, 

And blind beyond excusing. 
To lose the thing we could have kept, 

And after, mourn the losing. 

And this, the prize I might have won. 
Was worth a queen's obtaining ; 

And one, if far beyond my reach, 

I had sighed, perchance, for gain- 



And I know — ah ! no one knows so 
well, 
Though my heart is far from break- 
ing — 
'T was a loving heart, and an honest 
hand, 
I might have had for the taking. 

And yet, though never one beside 
Has place in my thought above him, 

I only like him when he is by, 
'T is when he is gone I love him. 

Sadly of absence poets sing, 

And timid lovers fear it ; 
But an idol has been worshiped less 

Sometimes when we came too near 
it. 

And for him my fancy throws to-day 
A thousand graces o'er him ; 

For he seems a god when he stands 
afar 
And I kneel in my thought before him. 

But if he were here, and knelt to me 
With a lover's fond persistence. 

Would the halo brighten to my eyes 
That crowns him now in the distance ? 

Could I change the words I have said, 
and say 

Till one of us two shall perish, 
Forsaking others, I take this man 

Alone, to love and to cherish ? 

Alas ! whatever beside to-day 

I might dream like a fond romancer, 

\ know mv heart so well that I know 
I should give him the self-same an 
swer. 



SONG. 

Laugh out, O stream, from your bed of 
green. 

Where you lie in the sun's embrace ; 
And talk to t'r.e reeds that o'er you lean 

To touch your dimpled face ; 
But let your talk be sweet as it will, 

And your laughter be as gay, 
You cannot laugh as I laugh in my heart, 

For my lover will come to-day ! 

Sing sweet, little bird, sing out to your 
mate 

That hides in the leafy grove ; 
Sing clear and tell him for him you wait, 

And tell him of all your love ; 
But though you sing till you shake the 
buds 

And the tender leaves of May, 
My spirit thrills with a sweeter song, 

For my lover must come to-day ! 

Come up, O winds, come up from ths 
south 

With eager hurrying feet. 
And kiss your red rose on her mouth 

In the bower where she blushes sweet; 
But you cannot kiss your darling flow- 
er. 

Though you clasp her as you may, 
As I kiss in my thought the lover dear 

I shall hold in my arms to-day J 



SOMEBODY'S LOVERS. 

Too meek by half was he who came 

A-wooing me one morn. 
For he thought so little of himself 

I learned to share his scorn. 

At night I had a suitor, vain 

As the vainest in the land ; 
Almost he seemed to condescend 

In the offer of his hand. 

In one who pressed his suit I missed 

Courage and manly pride ; 
And how could I think of such a one 

As a leader and a guide .'' 

And then there came a worshiper 
With such undoubting trust. 

That when he knelt he seemed not worth 
Upraising from the dust. 



262 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE GARY. 



The next was never in the wrong, 
Was not too smooth nor rough ; 

So faultless and so good was he, 4 

That that was fault enough. 

But one, the last of all who came, 

I know not how to paint ; 
No angel do I seem to him — 

He scarcely calls me saint ! 

He hath such sins and weaknesses 

As mortal man befall ; 
He hath a thousand faults, and yet 

I love him with them all ! 

He never asked me yea nor nay, 

Nor knelt to me one hour ; 
But he took my heart, and holds my 
heart 

With a lover's tender power. 

And I bow, as needs I must, and say, 

In proud humility, 
Love's might is right, and I yield at 
last 

To manhood's royalty ! 



ON THE RIVER. 

Darling, while the tender moon 
Of this soft, delicious June, 

Watches o'er thee like a lover ; 
While we journey to the sea, 
Silently, 

Let me tell my story over. 

Ah ! how clear before my sight 
Rises up that summer night. 

When I told thee first my passion; 
And the little crimson streak, 
In thy cheek. 

Showed thy love in comeliest fashion. 

When I pleaded for reply. 
Silent lip and downcast eye, 

Turning from me both dissembled; 
But the lily hand that shone 
In mine own, 

Like a lily softly trembled. 

And the pretty words that passed 

O'er thy coral lips at last. 
Still as precious pearls I treasure ; 

And the payment lovers give, 
While I live, 
Shall be given thee without measure. 



For I may not offer thee 

Such poor words as mine must be, 
I perforce must speak my blisses 

In the language of mine eyes, 
Mixed with sighs. 
And the tender speech of kisses. 

Heart, encompassed in my heart ! 

Hopeful, happy as thou art. 
Will I keep and ne'er forsake thee ; 

Yea, my love shall hold thee fast, 
Till the last. 
So that heaven alone can take thee ! 

And if sorrow ever spread 
Threatening showers o'er thy head, 

All about thee will I gather, 
Whatsoever things are bright, 
That thy sight 

May be tempted earthward rather ; 

From thy pathway, for love's sake, 
Carefully my hand will take, 

Every thorn anear it growing ; 
And my lamb within my arms, 
Safe from harms. 

Will I shield when winds are blowing 

Fairest woman, holiest saint ! 

If my words of praise could paint 
Thee, as liberal Nature made thee ; 

All who saw my picture, sweet, 
Would repeat, 
" He who painted, loved the lady 1 " 

Has the wide world anything 
Thou wilt take or I may bring, 

I will treat no work disdainful ; 
Set me some true lover's task, 
Dearest, ask 

Any service, sweet or painful. 

If it please thee, over me, 

Practice petty tyranny. 
Punish me as for misdoing, 

Let me make of penitence 
Sad pretense. 
At thy feet for pardon suing. 

Darling, all our life must be, 
Thou with me, and I with thee, 

Calm as this delicious weather; 
We will keep our honeymoon 
Every June, 

Voyaging through life together. 

You and me, we used to say, 
We were two but yesterday ; 



POEMS OF LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 



263 



We were as the sea and river ; 
Now our lives have all the sweetness, 
And completeness, 
Of two souls made one forever ! 



sky 



INCONSTANCY. 

All in a dreary April day, 
When the light of my 
changed to gloom. 
My first love drooped and faded away. 
While I sorrowed over its waning 
bloom. 

And I buried it, saying bitterly, 

As I watered its grave with a rain of 
tears ; 
" No flower of love will bloom for me 
Save this one, dead in my early 
years ! " 

But the May-time pushes the April out. 
And the summer of life succeeds the 
May ; 
And the heaviest clouds of grief and 
doubt. 
In weeping, weep themselves away. 

And ere I had ceased to mourn above 
My cherished flower's untimely tomb. 

Right out of the grave of that buried love 
There sprang another and fairer 
bloom. 

And I cried, " Sleep softly, my perished 
rose. 
My pretty bud of an April hour ; 
While I live in the beauty that burns 
and glows, 
In the summer heart of my passion 
flower ! " 



LOVE CANNOT DIE. 

Once, when my youth was in its flower, 
I lived in an enchanted bower, 

Unvexcd with fear or care, 
With one who made my world so bright, 
I thought no darkness and no blight 

Could ever enter there. 

I have no friend like that to-day. 
The very bower has passed away; 
It was not what it seemed; 



I know in all the world of men 
There is not and there ne'er has been, 
That one of whom I dreamed ! 

And one I loved and called my friend, 
And hoped to walk with to the end, 

And on the better shore. 
Has changed so cruelly that she, 
Out of my years that are to be, 

Is lost for evermore. 

With his dear eyes in death shut fast. 
Sleeps one who loved me to the last, 

Beneath the church-yard stone ; 
Yet hath his spirit always been 
Near me to cheer the world wherein 

I seem to walk alone. 

There was a little golden head 
A few brief seasons pillowed 

Softly my own beside ; 
That pillow long has been unprest — 
That child yet sleeps upon my breast 

As though she had not died. 

And seeing that I always hold 

Mine earthly loves, in love's sweet fold, 

I thus have learned to know, 
That He, whose tenderness divine 
Surpasses every thought of mine, 

Will never let me go. 

Yea, thou, whose love, so strong, so 

great, 
Nor life nor death can separate 

From souls within thy care ; 
I know that though in heaven I dwell, 
Or go to make my bed in hell. 

Thou still art with me there ! 



HELPLESS. 

You never said a word to me 
That was cruel, under the sun ; 

It is n't the things you do, darling, 
But the things you leave undone. 

If you could but know a wish or want 
You would grant it joyfully ; 

Ah ! that is the worst of all, darling, 
That you cannot know nor see. 

For favors free alone are sweet. 
Not those that we must seek ; 

If you loved as I love you, darling, 
I would not need to speak. 



264 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE GARY. 



But to-day I am helpless as a child 

That must be led along ; 
Then put your hand in mine, darling, 

And make me brave and strong. 

There 's a heavy care upon my mind, 

A trouble on my brain ; 
Now gently stroke my hair, darling, 

And take away the pain. 

I feel a weight within my breast, 

As if all had gone amiss ; 
Oh, kiss me with your lips, darling. 

And fill my heart with bliss. 

Enough ! no deeper joy than this 

For souls below is given ; 
Now take me in your arms, darling. 

And lift me up to heaven ! 



MY HELPER. 

We stood, my soul and I, 
In fearful jeopardy, 
The while the fire and tempest passed 
us by. 

For I was pushed by fate 
Into that fearful strait, 
Where there was nothing but to stand 
and wait. 

I had no company — 
The world was dark to me : 
Whence any light might come I could 
not see. 

I lacked each common good, 
Nor raiment had nor food ; 
The earth seemed slipping from me 
where I stood. 

One who had wealth essayed ; 
Gold in my hand he laid ; 
He proffered all his treasures for my aid. 

Yet from his gilded roof, 
I needs must stand aloof ; 
I could not put his kindness to the 
proof. 

One who had wisdom, said, 
" By me be taught and led, 
And thou, thyself, mayst win both 
home and bread. 



Too strong and wise was he, 
Too far away from me. 
To help me in my great necessity. 

Came one, with modest guise, 
With tender, downcast eyes. 
With voice as sweet as mothers' lul* 
labies. 

Softly his words did fall, 

" My riches are so small 

I cannot give thee anything at all. 

" I cannot guide thy way, 
As wiser mortals may ; 
But all ray true heart at thy feet I lay." 

No more earth seemed to move, 
The skies grew bright above ; 
He gave me everything, who gave me 
love ! 

I had sweet company. 
Food, raiment, luxury ; 
Had all the world — had heaven come 
down to me ! 

And now such peace is mine. 
Surely a light divine 
Must make my face with holiest joy to 
shine. 

So that my heart's delight 
Is published in men's sight ; 
And night and day I cry, and day and 
night ; 

G soul, no more alone, 
Such bliss as thine is known 
But to the angels nearest love's white 
throne ! 



FAITHFUL. 

Fainter and fainter may fall on my 

ear 
The voice that is sweeeter than music to 

hear ; 
More and more eagerly then will I list, 
That never a word or an accent be 

missed. 

Slower and slower the footstep may 

grow. 
Whose fall is the pleasantest sound 

that I know ; 



POEMS OF LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 



26s 



Quicker and quicker my glad heart shall 

learn 
To catch its faint echo and bless its 

return. 

Whiter and whiter may turn with each 

day 
The locks that so sadly are changing to 

gray; 
Dearer and dearer shall these seem to 

me, 
The fewer and whiter ar\^ thinner they 

be. 

Weaker and weaker may be the light 

clasp 
Of the hand that I hold so secure in 

my grasp ; 
Stronger and stronger my own to the 

last 
Will cling to it, holding it tenderly fast. 

Darker and darker above thee may 

spread 
The clouds of a fate that is hopeless 

and dread ; 
Brighter and brighter the sun of my 

love 
Will shine, all the shadows and mists 

to remove. 

Envy and malice thy life may assail, 
Favor and fortune and friendship may 

fail; 
But perfect and sure, and undying shali 

be 
The trust of this heart that is centred in 

thee ! 



THE LAST ACT. 

A WRETCHED farce is our life at best, 
A weariness under the sun ; 

I am sick of the part I have to play. 
And I would that it were done. 

I would that all the smiles and sighs 
Of its mimic scenes could end ; 

That we could see the curtain fall 
On the last poor act, my friend ! 

Thin, faded hair, a beard of snow, 
A thoughtful, furrowed brow j 

And this is all the world can see 
When it looks upon you now. 



And I, it almost makes me smile, 

'T is counterfeit so true, 
To see how Time hath got me up 

For the part I have to do. 

'T is strange that we can keep in 
mind, 

Through all this tedious play. 
The way we needs must act and look. 

And the words that we should say. 

And I marvel if the young and gay 

Believe us sad and old ; 
If they think our pulses slow and 
calm, 

And our feelings dead and cold ! 

But I cannot hide myself from you, 
Be the semblance e'er so good ; 

For under it all and through it all 
You would know the womanhood. 

And you cannot make me doubt your 
truth, 
For all your strange disguise ; 
For the soul is drawn through your 
tender voice, 
And the heart through the loving 
eyes. 

And I see, where other eyes behold 
Thin, whitened locks fall down, 

A god-like head, that proudly wears 
Its curls like a royal crown. 

And I see the smile of the tender lip, 
'Neath its manly fringe of jet. 

That won my heart, when I had a 
heart. 
And that holds and keeps it yet. 

Ah ! how shall we act this wretched 
part 
Till its weary, weary close ? 
For our souls are young, we are lovers 
yet. 
For all our shams and shows I 

Let us go and lay our masks aside 
In that cool and green retreat. 

That is softly curtained from the world 
By the daisies fair and sweet. 

And far away from this weary life, 
In the light of Love's white throne. 

We shall see, at last, as we are seen, 
And know as we are known ! 



266 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE GARY. 



TRUE LOVE. 

I THINK true love is never blind, 
But rather brings an added light ; 

An inner vision quick to find 
The beauties hid from common sight. 

No soul can ever clearly see 

Another's highest, noblest part ; 

Save through the sweet philosophy 
And loving wisdom of the heart. 

Your unanointed eyes shall fall 

On him who fills my world with light ; 

You do not see my friend at all, 

You see what hides him from your 
sight. 

I see the feet that fain would climb. 
You, but the steps that turn astray : 

I see the soul the unharmed, sublime ; 
You, but the garment, and the clay. 

You see a mortal, weak, misled, 
Dwarfed ever by the earthly clod ; 

I see how manhood, perfected. 
May reach the stature of a god. 

Blinded I stood, as now you stand, 
Till on mine eyes, with touches sweet, 

Love, the deliverer, laid his hand. 
And lo ! I worship at his feet ! 



COMPLAINT. 

" Though we were parted, or though 
he had died," 

She said, " I could bear the worst, 
If he only had loved me at the last, 

As he loved me at the first. 

" But woe is me ! " said the hapless 
maid, 

" That ever a lover came ; 
Since he who lit in my heart the fire, 

Has failed to tend the flame. 

" Ah ! why did he pour in my life's poor 
cup 

A nectar so divine. 
If he had no power to fill it up 

With a draught as pure and fine ? 

" Why did he give me one holiday, 
Then send me back to toil .'' 



Why did he set a lamp in my house, 
And leave it lacking oil ? 

" Why did he plant the rose in my 
cheeks 

When he knew it could not thrive — 
That the dew of kisses, only, keeps 

The true blush-rose alive ? 

" If he tired so soon of the song I sung 
In our love's delicious June, 

Why did he set the thoughts of my heart 
All to one blessed tune .' 

" Oh, if he were either true or false, 
My torment might have end : 

He hath been, for a lover, too unkind ; 
Too loving for a friend ! 

" And there is not a soul in all the world 
So wretched as mine must be. 

For I cannot live on his love," she said, 
" Nor die of his cruelty." 



DOVES' EYES. 

There are eyes that look through us, 
With the power to undo us, 
Eyes of the lovingest, tenderest blue, 
Clear as the heavens and as truthful too ; 
But these are not my love's eyes. 
For, behold, he hath doves' eyes ! 

There are eyes half defiant. 

Half meek and compliant ; 
Black eyes, with a wondrous, witching 

charm 
To bring us good or to work us harm ; 

But these are not my love's eyes, 

For, behold he hath doves' eyes ! 

There are eyes to our feeling 

Forever appealing ; 
Eyes of a helpless, pleading brown, 
That into our very souls look down ; 

But these are not my love's eyes. 

For, behold, he hath doves' eyes ! 

Oh eyes, dearest, sweetest, 
In beauty completes! ; 
Whose perfectness cannot be told in a 

word, — 
Clear and deep as the eyes of a soft^ 
brooding bird ; 
These, these are my love's eyes, 
For, behold, he hath doves' eyes 1 



POEMS OF LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 



267 



THE HUNTER'S WIFE. 

My head is sick and my heart is faint, 

I am wearied out with my own com- 
plaint. 
Answer me, come to me, then ; 

For, lo ! I have pleaded by every- 
thing 

My brain could dream, or my lips could 
sing. 

I have called you lover, and called you 
king, 
And man of the race of men ! 

Come to me glad, and I will be glad ; 
But if you are weary, or if you are 

sad, 
I will be patient and meek, 
Nor word, nor smile will I seem to 

crave ; 
But I '11 sit and wait, like an Eastern 

slave. 
Or wife, in the lodge of an Indian 

brave, 
In silence, till you speak. 

Come, for the power of life and death 
Hangs for me on the lightest breath 

Of the lips that I believe ; 
Only pause by the cooling lake. 
Till your weary mule her thirst shall 

slake ; 
'T were a fearful thing if a heart should 
break 
And you held its sweet reprieve ! 

Sleep lightly under the loving moon ; 
Rise with the morning, and ride till 

noon ; 
Ride till the stars are above ! 
And as you distance the mountain 

herds, 
And shame the flight of the summer 

birds. 
Say softly over the tenderest words 
The poets have sung of love. 

You will come — you are coming — a 

thousand miles 
Away, I can see you press through the 

aisles 
Of the forest, cool and gray ; 
And my lips shall be dumb till our lips 

have met, 
For never skill of a mortal yet, 
To mortal words such music set, 
As beats in my heart to-day ! 



LOVERS AND SWEETHEARTS. 

Fair youth, too timid to lift your eyes 
To the maiden with downcast look. 
As you mingle the gold and brown of 
your curls 
Together over a book ; 
A fluttering hope that she dare not 
name 
Her trembling bosom heaves ; 
And your heart is thrilled, when your 
fingers meet. 
As you soflly turn the leaves. 

Perchance you two will walk alone 

Next year at some sweet day's 
close, 
And your talk will fall to a tenderer 
tone. 

As you liken her cheek to a rose ; 
And then her face will flush and glow. 

With a hopeful, happy red ; 
Outblushing all the flowers that grow 

Anear in the garden-bed. 

If you plead for hope, she may bashful 
drop 
Her head on your shoulder, low ; 
And you will be lovers and sweethearts 
then 
As youths and maidens go : 
Lovers and sweethearts, dreaming 
dreams, 
And seeing visions that please. 
With never a thought that life is made 
Of great realities ; 

That the cords of love must be strong 
as death 
Which hold and keep a heart. 
Not daisy-chains, that snap in the 
breeze. 
Or break with their weight apart ; 
For the pretty colors of youth's fair 
morn 
Fade out from the noonday sky ; 
And blushing loves, in the roses born, 
Alas ! with the roses die ! 

But the love, that when youth's morn is 
past. 
Still sweet and true survives, 
Is the faith we need to lean upon 

In the crises of our lives : 
The love that shines in the eyes grown 
dim, 
In the voice that trembles speaks ; 



268 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE GARY. 



And sees the roses, that a year ago 
Withered and died in our cheeks ; 

That sheds a halo round us still, 

Of soft immortal light, 
When we change youth's golden coro- 
nal 

For a crown of silver white : 
A love for sickness and for health, 

For rapture and for tears ; 
That will live for us and bear with us 

Through all our mortal years. 

And such there is ; there are lovers 
here. 
On the brink of the grave that 
stand, 
Who shall cross to the hills beyond, 
and walk 
Forever hand in hand ! 
Pray, youth and maid, that your end be 
theirs, 
Who are joined no more to part ; 
For death comes not to the living 
soul. 
Nor age to the loving heart ! 



THE ROSE. 

The sun, who smiles wherever he 
goes. 
Till the flowers all smile again. 
Fell in love one day with a bashful 
rose, 
That had been a bud till then. 

So he pushed back the folds of the soft 
green hood 
That covered her modest grace, 
And kissed her as only the bold sun 
could, 
Till the crimson burned in her face. 

But woe for the day when his golden 
hair 
Tangled her heart in a net ; 
And woe for the night of her dark de- 
spair. 
When her cheek with tears was wet ! 

For she loved him as only a young rose 
could : 

And he left her crushed and weak, 
Striving in vain with her faded hood 

To cover her burning cheek. 



ARCHIE. 

Oh to be back in the cool summer 

shadow 
Of that old maple-tree down in the 

meadow ; 
Watching the smiles that grew dearer 

and dearer. 
Listening to lips that drew nearer and 

nearer ; 
Oh to be back in the crimson-topped 

clover. 
Sitting again with my Archie, my lover ! 

Oh for the time when I felt his caresses 
Smoothing away from my forehead the 

tresses ; 
When up from my heart to my cheek 

went the blushes, 
As he said that my voice was as sweet 

as the thrush's ; 
As he told me my eyes were bewitch- 

ingly jetty. 
And I answered, 't was only my love 

made them pretty ! 

Talk not of maiden reserve or of duty 
Or hide from my vision such visions of 

beauty ; 
Pulses above may beat calmly and 

even, — 
We have been fashioned for earth, and 

not heaven : 
Angels are perfect, I am but a woman ; 
Saints may be passionless, Archie is 

human. 

Say not that heaven hath tenderer 
blisses 

To her on whose brow drops the soft 
rain of kisses ; 

Preach not the promise of priests or 
evangels, — 

Loved-crowned, who asks for the crown 
of the angels ? 

Yea, all that the wall of pure jasper in- 
closes, 

Takes not the sweetness from sweet 
bridal roses ! 

Tell me, that when all this life shall be 

over, 
I shall still love him, and he be my lover; 
That mid flowers more fragrant than 

clover or heather 
My Archie and I shall be always to. 

gether, 



POEMS OF LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 



269 



Loving eternally, met ne'er to sever, 
Then you may tell me of heaven forever. 



A DAY DREAM. 

If fancy do not all deceive, 

If dreams have any truth, 
Thy love must summon back to me 

The glories of my youth ; 
For if but hope unto my thought 

Such transformation brings. 
May not fruition have the power 

To change all outward things ! 

Come, then, and look into mine eyes 

Till faith hath left no doubt ; 
So shalt thou set in them a light 

That never can go out ; 
Or lay thy hand upon my hair. 

And keep it black as night ; 
The tresses that had felt that touch 

Would shame to turn to white. 

To me it were no miracle. 

If, when I hear thee speak, 
Lilies around my neck should bloom 

And roses in my cheek ; 
Or if the joy of thy caress, 

The wonder of thy smiles, 
Smoothed all my forehead out again 

As perfect as a child's. 

My lip is trembling with such bliss 

As mortal never heard ; 
My heart, exulting to itself, 

Keeps singing like a bird ; 
And while about my tasks I go 

Quietly all the day, 
I could laugh out, as children laugh, 

Upon the hills at play. 

Q thou, whom fancy brings to me 

With morning's earliest beams. 
Who walkest with me down the night 

The paradise of dreams ; 
I charge thee, by the power of love, 

To answer to love's call ; 
Wake me to perfect happiness, 

Or wake me not at all ! 



For I sail with a royal argosy 
To win a royal prize. 

A maiden sits in her loveliness 
On the shore of a distant stream, 

And over the waters at her feet 
The lilies float, and dream. 

She reaches down, and draws them in, 
With a hand that hath no stain ; 

And that lily of all the lilies, her hand, 
Is the prize I go to gain. 

Her hair in a yellow flood falls down 
From her forehead low and white ; 

I would bathe in its billowy gold, and 
dream. 
In its sea of soft delight. 

Her cheek is as fair as a tender flower, 
When its blushing leaves dispart ; 

Oh, my rose of the world, my regal rose, 
I must wear you on my heart ! 

I must kiss your lips, so sweetly closed 
O'er their pearly treasures fair ; 

Or strike on their coral reef, and sink 
In the waves of my dark despair ! 



THE PRIZE. 



A WOMAN'S ANSWER, 

" Love thee ? " Thou canst not ask of 
me 

So freely as I fain would give ; 
'T is woman's great necessity 

To love so long as she shall live ; 
Therefcrre, if thou dost lovely prove, 
I cannot choose but give thee love ! 

" Honor thee ? " By her reverence 
The truest woman best is known ; 

She needs must honor where she finds 
A nature loftier than her own ; 

I shall not turn from thee away, 

Unless I find my idol clay ! 

" Obey ? " Doth not the stronger will 
The weaker govern and restrain ? 

Most sweet obedience woman yields 
Where wisdom> power, manhood 
reign. 

I '11 give thee, if thou canst control, 

The meek submission of my soul ! 



Hope wafts my bark, and round my way ' Henceforward all my life shall be 
Her pleasant sunshine lies ; I Moulded and fashioned by thine own ; 



270 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE GARY. 



If wisdom, power, and constancy 

In all thy words and deeds are shown ; 
Whether my vow be yea or nay, 
I '11 " love, and honor, and obey." 



IN ABSENCE. 

Watch her kindly, stars : 
From the sweet protecting skies 
Follow her with tender eyes, 
Look so lovingly that she 
Cannot choose but think of me : 

Watch her kindly, stars ! 

Soothe her sweetly, night : 
On her eyes, o'erwearied, press 
The tired lids with light caress ; 
Let that shadowy hand of thine 
Ever in her dreams seem mine : 

Soothe her sweetly, night ! 

Wake her gently, morn : 
Let the notes of early birds 
Seem like love's melodious words ; 
Every pleasant sound my dear, 
When she stirs from sleep, should 
hear : 

Wake her gently, morn ! 

Kiss her softly, winds : 
Softly, that she may not miss 
Any sweet, accustomed bliss ; 
On her lips, her eyes, her face, 
Till I come to take your place, 

Kiss and kiss her, winds ! 



ENCHANTMENT. 

Her cup of life with joy is full. 
And her heart is thrilling so 

That the beaker shakes in her trembling 
hand. 
Till its sweet drops overflow. 

All day she walks as in a trance ; 

And the thought she does not speak, 
But tries to hide from the world away. 

Burns out in her tell-tale cheek. 

And often from her dreams of night 
She wakes to consciousness. 

As the golden thread of her slumber 
breaks 
With the burden of its bliss. 



She is almost troubled with the wealth 

Of a joy so great and good, 
That she may not keep it to herself, 

Nor tell it if she would. 

'T is strange that this should come to 
one 

Who, all her life before. 
Content in her quiet household ways, 

Has asked for nothing more. 

And stranger, that he, in whom the 
power, 
The wonderful magic lay. 
That has changed her world to a para- 
dise, 
Was a man but yesterday ! 



WOOED AND WON. 

The maiden has listened to loving 
words. 
She has seen a heart like a flower un- 
close ; 
And yet she would almost hide its truth, 
And shut the leaves of the blushing 
rose. 

For the spell of enchantment is broken 
now, 
And all the future is seen so clear. 
That she longs for the very longing gone. 
For the restless pleasure of hope and 
fear. 

She stands so close to her painting now 
That its smallest failings are re- 
vealed, — 
Ah, that beautiful picture, that looked 
so sweet. 
By the misty distance half concealed ! 

" Alas," she says, " can it then be true 
That all is vanity, as they preach, — 
That the good is in striving after the 
good. 
And the best is the thing we never 
reach .'' 

" Are not the sweetest words we can 
speak : 
' It is mine, and I hold my treasure 
fast > ' 
And the saddest wrung from the human 
heart : 
' It might have been, but the time is 
past .? ' 



POEMS OF LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 



271 



" I do not know, and I will not say, 
But yet of a truth it seems to me, 
I would give my certain knowledge 
back 
For my hope, with its sweet uncer- 
tainty ! " 



LOVE'S RECOMPENSE. 

Her heart was light as human heart 
can be, 
When blushingly she listened to the 

praise 
Of him who talked of love in those 
sweet days 
When first she kept a lover's company. 

That was hope's spring-time ; now its 

flowers are dead, 
. And she, grown tired of life before its 

close, 
Weaves melancholy stories out of 

woes, 
Across whose dismal threads her heart 

has bled. 

Yet even for such we need not quite 
despair 
Since from our wrong God can bring 

forth his right ; 
And He, though all are precious in 
his sight. 
Doth give the uncared-for his peculiar 
care. 

So, in the good life that shall follow this. 
He, being love, may make her love 

to be 
One golden thread, spun out eter- 
nally. 
Through her white fingers, trembling 
with their bliss. 



JEALOUSY. 

I LOVE my love so well, I would 
There were no eyes but mine that could 
See my sweet piece of womanhood, 
And marvel of delight. 

I dread that even the sun should rise ; 
That bold, bright rover of the skies, 
Who dares to touch her closed eyes, 
And put her dreams to flight. 



No maid could be more kind to me, 
No truer maiden lives than she, 
But yet I die of jealousy, 

A thousand deaths in one. 

I cannot bear to see her stop. 

With her soft hand a flower to crop ; 

I envy even the clover-top 

Her dear foot treads upon. 

How cruel in my sight to bless 
Even her bird with the caress 
Of fingers that I dare not press, 
Those lady fingers, white ; 

That nestle oft in that dear place 
Between her pillow and her face. 
And, never asking leave or grace. 
Caress her cheek at night ! 

'T is torture more than I can bear 
To see the wanton summer air 
Lift the bright tresses of her hair. 
And careless let them fall. 

The wind that through the roses 

slips. 
And every sparkling dew-drop sips, 
Without rebuke may kiss her lips. 
The sweetest rose of all. 

I envy on her neck of snow, 
The white pearls hanging in a row, 
The opals on her heart that glow 
Flushed with a tender red. 

I would not, in her chamber fair, 
The curious stars should see her, 

where 
I, even in thought, may scarcely dare 
For reverence to tread. 

O maiden, hear and answer me 
In kindness or in cruelty; 
Tell me to live or let me die, 
I cry, and cry again ! 

Give me to touch one golden tress. 
Give me thy white hand to caress. 
Give me thy red, red lips to press. 
And ease my jealous pain ! 



SONG. 



r SEE him part the careless throng, 
I catch his eager eye ; 



272 



THE POEMS OF PIICEBE CARY. 



L 



He hurries towards me where I wait ; - 
Beat high, my heart, beat high ! 

I feel the glow upon my cheek, 

And all my pulses thrill ;■ 
He sees me, passes careless by ; — 

Be still, my heart, be still ! 

He takes another hand than mine, 

It trembles for his sake ; 
I see his joy, I feel my doom ; — 

Break, oh my heart-strings, break ! 



I CANNOT TELL. 

Once, being charmed by thy smile. 
And listening to thv praises, such 

As women, hearing all the while, 

I think could never hear too much, — 

I had a pleasing fantasy 

Of souls that meet, and meeting blend, 
And hearing that same dream from 
thee, 

I said 1 loved thee, O my friend ! 

That was the flood-tide of my youth. 
And now its calm waves backward 
flow ; 

I cannot tell if it were truth. 
If what I feel be love, or no. 

My days and nights pass pleasantly. 
Serenely on my seasons glide, 

And though I think and dream of thee, 
I dream of many things beside. 



Most eagerly thy praise is sought, 
'T is sweet to meet, and sad 
part ; 

But all my best and deepest thought 
Is hidden from thee in my heart. 

And still the while a charm or spell 
Half holds, and will not let me go ; 

'T is strange, and yet I cannot tell 
If what I feel be love, or no ! 



to 



DEAD LOVE. 

We are face to face, and between us 
here 
Is the love we thought could never 
die ; 



Why has it only lived a year ? 

Who has murdered it — you or I ? 

No matter who — the deed was done 
By one or both, and there it lies ; 

The smile from the lip forever gone, 
And darkness over the beautiful eyes 

Our love is dead, and our hope is 
wrecked ; 
So what does it profit to talk and rave_ 
Whether it perished by my neglect, 
Or whether your cruelty dug its 
grave ! 

Why should you say that I am to blame, 
Or why should I charge the sin on 
you ? 
Our work is before us all the same. 
And the guilt of it lies between us 
two. 

We have praised our love for its beauty 
and grace ; 
Now we stand here, and hardly dare 
To turn the face-cloth back from the 
face. 
And see the thing that is hidden 
there. 

Yet look ! ah, that heart has beat its 
last, 
And the beautiful life of our life is 
o'er. 
And when we have buried and left the 
past. 
We two, together, can walk no more. 

You might stretch yourself on the 
dead, and weep. 
And pray as the Prophet prayed, in 
pain ; 
But not like him could you break the 
sleep. 
And bring the soul to the clay again. 

Its head in my bosom I can lay, 

And shower my woe there, kiss on 
kiss, 

But there never was resurrection-day 
In the world for a love so dead as this. 

And, since we cannot lessen the sin 

By mourning over the deed we did, 
Let us draw the winding-sheet up to 
the chin. 
Aye, up till the death-blind eyes are 
hid! 



POEMS OF LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 



273 



MY FRIEND. 

MY friend, O my dearly beloved ! 

Do you feel, do you know. 
How the times and the seasons are go- 
ing ; 
Are they weary and slow ? 
Does it seem to you long, in the heav- 
ens, 
My true, tender mate. 
Since here we were living together, 

Where dying I wait ? 
' T is three years, as we count by the 
spring-times, 
By the birth of the flowers, 
What are years, aye ! eternities even, 

To love such as ours ? 
Side by side are we still, though a 
shadow 
Between us doth fall ; 
We are parted, and yet are not parted, 

Not wholly, and all. 
For still you are round and about me, 

Almost in my reach. 
Though I miss the old pleasant com- 
munion 
Of smile and of speech. 
And I long to hear what you are see- 
ing, 
And what you have done. 
Since the earth faded out from your 
vision, 
And the heavens begun ; 
Since you dropped off the darkening 
fillet 
Of clay from your sight. 
And opened your eyes upon glory 

Ineffably bright ! 
Though litde my life has accomplished, 
My poor hands have wrought ; 

1 have lived what has seemed to be ages 

In feeling and thought. 
Since the time when our path grew so 
narrow 

So near the unknown. 
That I turned back from following 
after. 

And you went on alone. 
For we speak of you cheerfully, always, 

As journeying on ; 
Not as one who is dead do we name 
you ; 

We say, you are gone. 
For how could we speak of you sad'i)'. 

We, who watched while the grace 
Df eternity's wonderful beauty 

Grew over your face \ 



Do we call the star lost that is hidden 

In the great light of morn ? 
Or fashion a shroud for the young child 

In the day it is born .'' 
Yet behold this were wise to their folly, 

Who mourn, sore distressed, 
When a soul, that is summoned, be- 
lieving. 

Enters into its rest ! 
And for you, never any more sweetly 

Went to rest, true and deep. 
Since the first of our Lord's blessed 
martyrs. 

Having prayed, fell asleep. 

What to you was the change, the tran- 
sition, 

When looking before, 
You felt that the places which knew you 

Should know you no more .' 
Did the soul rise exultant, ecstatic ? 

Did it cry, all is well .' 
What it was to the left and the loving 

We only can tell. 
' T was as if one took from us sweet 
roses 

And we caught their last breath ; 
' T was like anything beautiful passing, — 

It was not like death ! 
Like the flight of a bird, when still ris- 
ing. 

And singing aloud, 
He goes towards the summer-time, over 

The top of the cloud. 
Now seen and now lost in the distance, 

Borne up and along, 
From the sight of the eyes that are 
watching 

On a trail of sweet song. 
As sometimes, in the midst of the black- 
ness, 

A great shining spark 
Flames up from the wick of a candle, 

Blown out in the dark ; 
So while we were watching and wait- 
ing. 

' Twixt hoping and doubt. 
The light of the soul flashed upon us, 

When we thought it gone out. 
And we scarce could believe it forever 

Withdrawn from our sight. 
When the cold lifeless ashes before us 

Fell silent and white ! 
Ah ! the strength of your love was so 
wondrous, 

So great was its sway. 
It forced back the spirit half-parted 

Away from the clay ; 



274 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE GARY. 



In its dread of the great separation, 
For not then did we know, 

Love can never be left, O beloved, 
And never can go ! 

As when from some beautiful casement 

Illumined at night. 
While we steadfastly gaze on its bright- 
ness, • 
A hand takes the light ; 
And our eyes still transfixed by the 
splendor 
Look earnestly on, 
At the place where we lately beheld it, 

Even when it has gone : 
So we looked in your soul's darkening 
windows, 
Those luminous eyes. 
Till the light taken from them fel' on 
us 
From out of the skies ! 
Though you wore something earthly 
about you 
That once we called you, 
A robe all transparent, and brightened 

By the soul shining through : 
Yet when you had dropped it in going, 

' T was but yours for a day, 
Safe back in the bosom of nature 

We laid it away. 
Strewing over it odorous blossoms 

Their perfume to shed, 
^ut you never were buried beneath 
them. 
And never were dead ! 
What we brought there and left for the 
darkness 
Forever to hide. 
Was but precious because you had worn 
it, 
And put it aside. 
As a garment might be, you had fash- 
ioned 
In exquisite taste ; 
A book which your touch had made 
sacred, 
A flower you had graced. 
For all that was yours we hold pre- 
cious. 
We keep for your sake 
Every relic our saint on her journey 
Has not needed to take. 

Who that knew what your spirit, though 
fettered. 

Aspired to, adored. 
When as far as the body would loose it 

It mounted and soared ; 



What soul in the world that had loved 
you. 
Or known you aright, 
Would look for you down in the dark- 
ness. 
Not up in the light ? 
Why, the seed in the ground that we 
planted, 
And left there to die, 
Being quickened, breaks out of its 
prison. 
And grows towards the sky. 
The small fire that but slowly was kin- 
dled. 
And feebly begun. 
Gaining strength as it burns, flashes up- 
ward. 
And mounts to the sun. 
And could such a soul, free for ascend- 
ing. 
CouTd that luminous spark. 
Blown to flame by the breath of Jeho- 
vah, 
Go out in the dark .■' 
Doth the bird stay behind when the 
window 
Wide open is set ? 
Or, freed from the snare of the fowler, 

Hasten back to his net .' 
And you pined in the flesh, being bur- 
dened 
By its great weight of ills. 
As a slave, who has tasted wild free- 
dom. 
Still pines for the hills. 
And therefore it is that I seek you 

In full, open day. 
Where the universe stretches the far- 
thest 
From darkness away. 
And think of you always as rising 

And spurning the gloom ; 
All the width of infinity keeping 
'Twixt yourself and the tomb ! 

Sometimes in white raiment I see you, 

Treading higher and higher. 
On the great sea of glass, ever shining. 

And mingled with fire. 
With the crown and the harp of the 
victor. 

Exultant you stand ; 
And the melody drops, as if jewels 

Dropped off from your hand. 
You walk in that beautiful city. 

Adorned as a bride, 
Whose twelve gates of pearl are forevei 

Opened freely and wide. 



POEMS OF LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 



275 



Whose walls upon jasper foundations 

Shall firmly endure ; 
Set with topaz, and beryl, and sapphire, 

And amethyst pure. 
You are where there is not any dying, 

Any pain, any cries ; 
And God's hand has wiped softly for- 
ever, 

The tears from your eyes : 
For if spirits because of much loving 

Come nearest the throne. 
You must be with the saints and the 
children 

Our Lord calls his own ! 

Sometimes you are led in green pastures, 

The sweetest and best ; 
Sometimes as a lamb in the bosom 

Of Jesus you rest. 
Where you linger the spiciest odors 

Of paradise blow, 
And under your feet drifts of blossoms 

Lie soft as the snow. 
If you follow the life-giving river, 

Or rest on its bank, 
You are set round by troops of white 
lilies, 

In rank after rank. 
And the loveliest things, and the fairest. 

That near you are seen 
Seem as beautiful handmaids, W'ho wait 
on 

The step of a queen. 
For always, wherever I see you, 

Below or above, 
I think all the good which surrounds you 

Is born of your love. 
And the best place is that where I find 
you. 

The best thing what you do ; 
For you seem to have fashioned the 
heaven 

That was fashioned for you ! 

But as from his essence and nature 

Our God, ever blest, 
Cannot do anything for his children 

But that which is best ; 
And till He hath gathered them to Him, 

In the heavens above. 
Cannot joy over them as one singing. 

Nor rest in his love ; 
So you, who have drawn from his good- 
ness 

Your portion of good, 
Must help where your hand can be help- 
ful, 

Cannot rest if you would ; 



For you could not be happy in heaven, 

By glory shut in. 
While any soul whom you might com- 
fort 

Should suffer and sin. 
So unto the heirs of salvation 

Have you freely appeared ; 
And the earth by your sweet ministra- 
tion 

Is brightened and cheered. 

I am sure you are near to the dying ! 

For often we mark 
A smile on their faces, whose brightness 

Lights the soul through the dark ; 
Sure, that you have for man in his direst 

Necessity cared ; 
Preparing him then for whatever 

The Lord hath prepared. 
So, whenever you tenderly loosen 

A hand from our grasp. 
We feel, you can hold it and keep it 

More safe in your clasp ; 
And that he, whose dear smile for a 
season 

Our love must resign. 
Gains the infinite comfort and sweetness 

Of love such as thine. 

Yea, lost mortal, immortal forever ! 

And saved evermore ! 
You revisit the world and the people. 

That saw you of yore. 
To the sorrowful house, to the death- 
room. 

The prison and tomb, 
You come, as on wings of the morning, 

To scatter the gloom. 
Wherever in desolate places 

Earth's misery abides ; 
Wherever in dark habitations 

Her cruelty hides ; 
If there the good seek for the wretched. 

And lessen their woes, 
Surely they are led on by the angels. 

And you are of those. 

In the holds of oppression, where cap- 
tives 
Sit silent and weep. 
Your face as the face of a seraph 

Has shined in their sleep : 
And your white hand away from the 
dungeon 
His free step has led, 
When the slave slipped his feet from 
the fetters, 
And the man rose instead ; 



276 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE GARY. 



Free, at least in his dreams and his 
visions, 

That one to behold, 
Who walked through the billows of fire 

With the faithful of old. 
And what are the walls of the prison. 

The rack and the rod, 
To him, who in thought and in spirit, 

Bows only to God ? 
If his doors are swung back by the 
angels 

That visit his sleep — 
If his singing ascend at the midnight. 

Triumphant and deep ; 
He is freer than they who have bound 
him, 

For his spirit may rise 
And as far as infinity reaches 

May travel the skies ! 

And who knows but the wide world of 
slumber 

Is real as it seems ? 
God giveth them sleep, his beloved, 

And in sleep giveth dreams ! 
And happy are we if such visions 

Our souls can receive ; 
If we sleep at the gateway of heaven. 

And wake and believe. 
If angels for us on that ladder 

Ascend and descend, 
Whose top reaches into the heavens, 

With God at the end ! 
If our souls can raise up for a Bethel 

E'en the great stone that lies 
At the mouth of the sepulchre, hiding 

Our dead from our eyes ! 
But alas ! if our sight be withholden, 

If faithless, bereft. 
We stoop down, looking in at the grave- 
clothes 

The Risen hath left ; 
And see not the face of the angel 

All dazzling and white. 
Who points us away from the darkness. 

And up to the light ! 
And alas ! when our Helper is passing, 

If then we delay, 
To cast off the hindering garments 

And follow his way ! 

Yet how blindly humanity gropeth, 

While clad in this veil ; 
When we seek for the truths that are 
nearest. 

How often we fail. 
How little we learn of each other, 

How little we teach ; 



How poorly the wisest interpret 

The look and the speech ! 
Only that which in nearest coromui* 
ion 
We give and receive. 
That which spirit to spirit imparteth, 

Can we know and believe. 
Thus I know that you live, live for- 
ever, 
Free from death, free from harms ; 
For in dreams of the night, and at noon- 
day 
Have you been in my arms ! 
And I know that, when I shall be like 
you. 
We shall meet face to face ; 
That all souls, who are joined by aflfec- 
tion, 
Are joined by God's grace ; 
And that, O my dearly beloved. 

But the Father above, 
Who made us and joined us can part 
us ; 
And He cannot for love. 



DREAMS AND REALITIES. 

O Rosamond, thou fair and good, 
And perfect flower of womanhood, 

Thou royal rose of June, 
Why didst thou droop before thy time ? 
Why wither in thy first sweet prime ? 

Why didst thou die so soon .'' 

For looking backward through my tears 
On thee, and on my wasted yearS; 

I cannot choose but say, 
If thou hadst lived to be my guide. 
Or thou hadst lived and I had died, 

'T were better far to-day. 

O child of light, O golden head — 
Bright sunbeam for one moment shed 

Upon life's lonely way — 
Why didst thou vanish from our sight? 
Could they not spare my little light 

From heaven's unclouded day .-' 

O friend so true, O friend so good — 
T1k)u one dream of my maidenhood, 

That gave youth all its charms — 
What had I done, or what hadst thou, 
That through this lonesome world tiQ 
now 

We walk with empty arms .'' 



POEMS OF LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 



277 



And yet, had this poor soul been fed 
With all it loved and coveted — 

Had life been always fair — 
Would these dear dreams that ne'er 

depart, 
That thrill with bliss my inmost heart, 

Forever tremble there ? 

If still they kept their earthly place. 
The friends I held in my embrace, 

And gave to death, alas ! 
Could 1 have learned that clear, calm 

faith 
That looks beyond the bounds of death, 

And almost longs to pass ? 

Sometimes, I think, the things we see 
Are shadows of the things to be ; 
That what we plan we build ; 



That every hope that hath been crossed, 
And every dream we thought was lost, 
In heaven shall be fulfilled ; 

That even the children of the brain 
Have not been born and died in vain, 

Though here unclothed and dumb ; 
But on some brighter, better shore 
They live, embodied evermore, 

And wait for us to come. 

And when on that last day we rise. 
Caught up between the earth and 
skies. 
Then shall we hear our Lord 
Say, " Thou hast done with doubt and 

death ; 
Henceforth, according to thy faith, 
Shall be thy faith's reward." 



RELIGIOUS POEMS AND HYMNS« 



NEARER HOME. 

One sweetly solemn thought 
Comes to me o'er and o'er ; 

I am nearer home to-day 

Than I ever have been before ; 

Nearer my Father's house, 

Where the many mansions be ; 

Nearer the great white throne, 
Nearer the crystal sea ; 

Nearer the bound of life, 

Where we lay our burdens down ; 
Nearer leaving the cross, 

Nearer gaining the crown ! 

But lying darkly between, 

Winding down through the night, 
Is the silent, unknown stream, 

That leads at last to the light. 

Closer and closer my steps 
Come to the dread abysm : 

Closer Death to my lips 
Presses the awful chrism. 

Oh, if my mortal feet 

Have almost gained the brink ; 
If it be I am nearer home 

Even to-day than I think ; 

Father, perfect my trust ; 

Let my spirit feel in death, 
That her feet are firmly set 

On the rock of a living faith ! 



MANY MANSIONS. 

Her silver lamp half-filled with oil. 
Night came, to still the day's turmoil. 
And bring a respite from its toil. 

Gliding about with noiseless tread. 
Her white sheets on the ground she 

spread, 
That wearied men might go to bed. 



No watch was there for me to keep, 
Yet could I neither rest nor sleep, 
A recent loss had struck so deep. 

I felt as if Omnipotence 

Had given us no full recompense 

For all the ills of time and sense. 

So I went, wandering silently. 
Where a great river sought the sea ; 
And fashioned out the life to be. 

It was not drawn from book or creed, 
And yet, in very truth and deed, 
It answered to my greatest need. 

And satisfied myself, I thought, 

A heaven so good and perfect ought 

To give to each what all have sought. 

Near where I slowly chanced to stray, 
A youth, and old man, worn and gray, 
Down through the silence took their way; 

And the night brought within my reach, 
As each made answer unto each. 
Some portion of their earnest speech. 

The patriarch said : " Of all we know, 
Or all that we can dream below. 
Of that far land to which we go, 

"This one assurance hath expressed. 
To me, its blessedness the best, — 
' He giveth his beloved rest.' " 

And the youth answered : " If it be 

A place of inactivity, 

It cannot be a heaven to me. 

" Surely its joy must be to lack 
These hindrances that keep us back 
From rising on a shining track ; 

" Where each shall find his own true 

height, 
Though in our place, and in our light, 
We differ as the stars of night." 



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279 



I listened, till they ceased to speak ; 
And niy heart answered, faint and 

weak, 
Their heaven is not tlie heaven I seek '. 

Yet their discourse awoke again 
Some hidden memories that had lain 
Long undisturbed within my brain. 

For oft, when bowed earth's care be- 
neath, 
I had asked others of their faith 
In the life following after death ; 

And what that better world could be, 
Where, from mortality set free, 
We put on immortality. 

And each in his reply had shown 
That he had shaped and made his own 
By the best things which he had known : 

Or fashioned it to heal the woe 
Of some great sorrow, which below 
It was his hapless lot to know. 

A mother once had said to me, 
Over her dead : " My heaven will be 
An undivided family." 

One sick with mortal doubts and fears, 
With looking blindly through her tears. 
The way that she had looked for years. 

Told me : " That world could have no 

pain, 
Since there we should not wait in vain 
For feet that will not come again." 

A lover dreamed that heaven would be 
Life's hour of perfect ecstasy. 
Drawn out into eternity ! 

Men bending to their hopeless doom, 
Toiling as in a living tomb, 
Down shafts of everlasting gloom. 

Out of the dark had answered me : 
" Where there is light for us to see 
Each other's faces, heaven must be." 

An aged man, who bowed his head 
With reverence o'er the page, and read 
The words that ancient prophets said, 

Talked of a glory never dim, 
Of the veiled face of cherubim. 
And harp, and everlasting hymn ; — 



Saw golden streets and glittering tow- 
ers — 

Saw peaceful valleys, white with flow- 
ers, 

Kept never-ending Sabbath hours. 

One, who the cruel sea had crossed. 
And seen, through billows madly tossed. 
Great shipwrecks, where brave souls 
were lost, 

Thus of the final voyage spake : 

" Coming to heaven must be to make 

Safe port, and no more journeys take." 

And now their words of various kind 
Come/^ck to my bewildered mind. 
And mv faith staggered, faint and 
blind. 

One moment ; then this truth seemed 

plain. 
These have not trusted God in vain ; 
To ask of Him must be to gain. 

Every imaginable good. 

We, erring, sinful, mortal, would 

Give the beloved, if we could ; 

And shall not He, whose care en- 
folds 
Our life, and all our way controls, 
Yet satisfy our longing souls ? 

Since mortal step hath never been, 
And mortal eye hath never seen, 
Past death's impenetrable screen. 

Who shall dare limit Him above. 

Or tell the ways in which He '11 

prove 
Unto his children all his love ? 

Then joy through all my being spread, 
And, comforted myself, I said : 
O weary world, be comforted ! 

Souls, in your quest of bliss grown 

weak — 
Souls, whose great woe no words can 

speak — 
Not always shall ye vainly seek ! 

Men whose whole lives have been a 

night. 
Shall come from darkness to the 

light ; 
Wanderers shall hail the land in sight. 



28o 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE GARY. 



Old saints, and martyrs of the Lamb, 
Shall rise to sing their triumph psalm, 
And wear the crown, and bear the 
palm. 

And the pale mourner, with bowed head, 
Who, for the living lost, or dead, 
Here weeps, shall there be gently led. 

To feel, in that celestial place. 

The tears wiped softly from her face. 

And know love's comforting embrace. 

So shall we all, who groan in this. 
Find, in that new life's perfectness, 
Our own peculiar heaven of bliss — 

More glorious than our faith believed, 
Brighter than dreams our hope has 

weaved. 
Better than all our hearts conceived. 

Therefore will I wait patiently, 
Trusting, where all God's mansions be 
There hath been one prepared for me ; 

And go down calmly to death's tide, 
Knowing, when on the other side 
I wake, I shall be satisfied. 



THE SPIRITUAL BODY. 

I HAVE a heavenly home. 
To which my soul may come, 

And where forever safe it may abide ; 
Firmly and sure it stands, 
That house not made with hands. 

And garnished as a chamber for a 
bride ! 

'T is such as angels use. 
Such as good men would choose ; 
It hath all fair and pleasant things in 
sight : 
Its walls as white and fine 
As polished ivory shine. 
And through its windows comes celes- 
tial light. 

'T is builded fair and good. 

In the similitude 
Of the most royal palace of a king ; 

And sorrow mav not come 

Into that heavenly home. 
Nor pain, nor death, nor any evil 
thing. 



Near it that stream doth pass 
Whose waters, clear as glass. 

Make glad the city of our God with 
song ; 
Whose banks are fair as those 
Whereon stray milk-white does. 

Feeding among the lilies all day long. 

And friends who once were here 

Abide in dwellings near ; 
They went up thither on a heavenly 
road; 

While I, though warned to go, 

Yet linger here below. 
Clinging to a most miserable abode. 

The evil blasts drive in 
Through chinks, which time and sin 
Have battered in my wretched house of 
clay ; 
Yet in so vile a place. 
Poor, unadorned with grace, 
I choose to live, or rather choose to 
stay. 

And here I make my moan 
About the days now gone. 
About the souls passed on to their re- 
ward ; 
The souls that now have come 
Into a better home, 
And sit in heavenly places with their 
Lord. 

'T is strange that I should cling 
To this despised thing, 
To this poor dwelling crumbling round 
my head ; 
Making myself content 
In a low tenement, 
After my joys and friends alike are 
fled! 

Yet I shall not, I know. 
Be ready hence to go. 
And dwell in my good palace, fair and 
whole, 
Till unrelenting Death 
Blows with his icy breath 
Upon my naked and unsheltered 
soul ! 



A GOOD DAY. 

Earth seems as peaceful and as bright 
As if the year that might not stay, 



RELIGIOUS POEMS AND HYMNS. 



281 



Had made a sweet pause in her flight, 
To keep another Sabbath day. 

And I, as past the moments roll, 
Forgetting human fear and doubt, 

Hold better Sabbath, in my soul, 

Than that which Nature holds with- 
out. 

Help me, O Lord, if I shall see 

Times when I walk from hope apart. 

Till all my days but seem to be 
The troubled week-days of the heart. 

Help me to find, in seasons past, 

The hours that have been good or 
fair. 

And bid remembrance hold them fast. 
To keep me wholly from despair. 

Help me to look behind, before, 
• To make my past and future form 
A bow of promise, meeting o'er 
The darkness of my day of storm. 



HYMN. 



How dare I in thy courts appear. 
Or raise to thee my voice ! 

I only serve thee, Lord, with fear. 
With trembling I rejoice. 

I have not all forgot thy word, 
Nor wholly gone astray ; 

I follow thee, but oh, my Lord, 
So faint, so far away ! 

That thou wilt pardon and receive 
Of sinners even the chief, 

Lord, I believe, — Lord, I believe; 
Help thou mine unbelief ! 



DRAWING WATER. 

He had drunk from founts of pleas- 
ure, 

And his thirst returned again ; 
He had hewn out broken cisterns. 

And behold ! his work was vain. 

And he said, " Life is a desert. 
Hot, and measureless, and dry; 

j^nd God will not give me water. 
Though I strive, and faint, and die." 



Then he heard a voice make answer, 
"Rise and roll the stone away ; 

Sweet and precious springs lie hidden 
In thy pathway every day." 

And he said, his heart was sinful, 
Very sinful was his speech : 

" All the cooling wells I thirst for 
Are too deep for me to reach." 

But the Voice cried, " Hope and la- 
bor ; 

Doubt and idleness is death ; 
Shape a clear and goodly vessel, 

With the patient hands of faith." 

So he wrought and shaped the vessel. 
Looked, and lo ! a well was there ; 

And he drew up living water, 
With a golden chain of prayer. 



TOO LATE. 

Blessings, alas ! unmerited, 
Freely as evening dews are shed 
Each day on my unworthy head. 

So that my very sins but prove 
The sinlessness of Him above 
And his unutterable love. 

And yet, as if no ear took heed, 
Not what I ask, but what I need. 
Comes down in answer, when I plead. 

So that my heart with anguish cries. 
My soul almost within me dies, 
'Twixt what God gives, and what de^ 
nies. 

For howsoe'er with good it teems, 
The life accomplished never seems 
The blest fulfillment of its dreams. 

Therefore, when nearest happiness, 
I only say. The thing I miss — 
That would have perfected my bliss ! 

When harvests great are mine to reap, 
Too late, too late ! I sit and weep, 
My best beloved lies asleep ! 

Sometimes my griefs are hard to bear, 
Sometimes my comforts I would share, 
And the one dearest is not there. 



282 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE GARY. 



That which is mine to-day, I know, 
Had made a paradise below, 
Only a little year ago. 

The sunshine we then did crave. 
As having almost power to save, 
Keeps now the greenness of a grave. 

To have our dear one safe from gloom, 
We planned a fair and pleasant room, 
And lo ! Fate builded up a tomb. 

An empty heart, with cries unstilled, 
An empty house, with love unfilled, 
These are the things our Father willed. 

And bowing to Him, as we must, 
Whose name is Love, whose way is just, 
We have no refuge, but our trust. 



RETROSPECT. 

Loving One, O Bounteous One, 
What have I not received from thee. 

Throughout the seasons that have gone 
Into the past eternity ! 

For looking backward through the year, 
Along the way my feet have pressed, 

1 see sweet places everywhere, 
Sweet places, where my soul had 

rest. 

And, though some human hopes of mine 
Are dead, and buried from my sight. 

Yet from their graves immortal flowers 
Have sprung, and blossomed into 
light. 

Body, and heart, and soul, have been 
Fed by the most convenient food ; 

My nights are peaceful all the while, 
And all my mortal days are good. 

My sorrows have not been so light. 
The chastening hand I could not 
trace ; 

Nor have my blessings been so great 
That they have hid my Father's face. 



HUMAN AND DIVINE. 

Vile, and deformed by sin I stand, 
A creature earthy of the earth ; 



Yet fashioned by God's perfect hand, 
And in his likeness at my birth. 

Here in a wretched land I roam. 
As one who had no home but this ; 

Yet am invited to become 
Partaker in a world of bliss. 

A tenement of misery. 

Of clay is this to which I cling : 
A royal palace waits for me. 

Built by the pleasure of my King ! 

My heavenly birthright I forsake, — 
An outcast, and unreconciled ; 

The manner of his love doth make 
My Father own me as his child. 

Shortened by reason of man's wrong, 
My evil days I here bemoan ; 

Yet know my life must last as long 
As his, who struck it from his own. 

Turned wholly am I from the way, — ' 
Lost, and eternally undone ; 

I am of those, though gone astray. 
The Father seeketh through the Sott 

I wander in a maze of fear, 

Hid in impenetrable night. 
Afar from God — and yet so near, 

He keeps me always in his sight. 

I am as dross, and less than dross, 
Worthless as worthlessness can be ; 

I am so precious that the cross 
Darkened the universe for me ! 

I am unfit, even from the dust, 

Master ! to kiss thy garment's hem : 

I am so dear, that thou, though just, 
Wilt not despise me nor condemn. 

Accounted am I as the least 

Of creatures valueless and mean ; 

Yet heaven's own joy shall be increased 
If e'er repentance wash me clean. 

Naked, ashamed, I hide my face, 

All seamed by guilt's defacing scars j 

I may be clothed with righteousness 
Above the brightness of the stars. 

Lord, I do fear that I shall go 

Where death and darkness wait fcf 
me ; 

Lord, I believe, and therefore know 
I have eternal life in thee ! 



RELIGIOUS POEMS AND HYMNS. 



283 



OVER-PAYMENT. 

I TOOK a little good seed in my hand, 
And cast it tearfully upon the land ; 
Saying, of this the fowls of heaven shall 

eat, 
Or the sun scorch it with his burning 

heat. 

Yet I, who sowed, oppressed by doubts 
and fears, 

Rejoicing gathered in the ripened ears ; 

For when the harvest turned the fields 
to gold, 

Mine yielded back to me a thousand- 
fold. 

A little child begged humbly at my 

door ; 
Small was the gift I gave her, being 

poor, 
But let my heart go with it : therefore 

we 
Were both made richer by that charity. 

My soul with grief was darkened, I was 
bowed 

Beneath the shadow of an awful cloud ; 

When one, whose sky was wholly over- 
spread, 

Came to me asking to be comforted. 

It roused mp from my weak and selfish 

fears ; 
It dried my own to dry another's tears ; 
The bow, to which I pointed in his 

skies. 
Set all my cloud with sweetest promises. 

Once, seeing the inevitable way 

My feet must tread, through difficult 

places lay ; 
I cannot go alone, I cried, dismayed,—- 
I faint, I fail, I perish, w-ithout aid ! 

Yet, when I looked to see if help were 

nigh, 
A creature weaker, wretcheder than I, 
One on whose head life's fiercest storms 

had beat. 
Clung to my garments, falling at my 

feet. 

I saw, I paused no more : my courage 

found, 
I stooped and raised her gently from 

the ground : 



Through every peril safe I passed at 

length. 
For she who leaned upon me gave me 

strength. 

Once, when I hid my wretched self 
from Him, 

My Father's brightness seemed with- 
drawn and dim : 

But when I lifted up mine eyes I learned 

His face to those who seek is always 
turned. 

A half-unwilling sacrifice I made : 
Ten thousand blessings on my head 

were laid ; 
I asked a comforting spirit to descend : 
God made Himself my comforter and 

friend. 

I sought his mercy in a faltering prayer, 
And lo ! his infinite tenderness and care, 
Like a great sea, that hath no ebbing 

tide. 
Encompassed me with love on every 

side ! 



VAIN REPENTANCE. 

Do we not say, forgive us, Lord, 
Oft when too well we understand 

Our sorrow is not such as thou 
Requirest at the sinner's hand "i 

Have we not sought thy face in tears, 
When our desire hath rather been 

Deliverance from the punishment, 
Than full deliverance from the sin } 

Alas ! we mourn because we fain 

Would keep the things we should re« 
sign : 

And pray, because we cannot pray — 
Not my rebellious will, but thine ! 



IN EXTREMITY. 

Think on him. Lord ! we ask thy aid 
It life's most dreaded extremity : 

For evil days have come to him, 
Who in his youth remembered thee. 

Look on him, Lord ! for heart and flesh. 
Alike, must fail without thy grace : 



284 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE CARY. 



Part back the clouds, that he may see 
The brightness of his P'ather's face. 

Speak to him, Lord ! as thou didst talk 
To Adam, in the Garden's shade, 

And grant it unto him to hear 
Thy voice, and not to be afraid. 

Support him, Lord ! that he may come, 
Leaning on thee, in faith sublime. 

Up to that awful landmark, set 
Between eternity and time. 

And, Lord ! if it must be that we 
Shall walk with him no more below, 

Reach out of heaven thy loving hand, 
And lead him where we cannot go. 



PECCAVL 

I HAVE sinned, I have sinned, before 

thee, the Most Holy ! 
And I come as a penitent, bowing down 

lowly, 
With my lips making freely their awful 

admission. 
And mine eyes raining bitterest tears 

of contrition ; 
And I cry unto thee, with my mouth in 

the dust : 

O God ! be not just ! 

God ! be not just ; but be merciful 

rather, — 

Let me see not the face of my Judge 
but my Father : 

A sinner, a culprit, I stand self-con- 
victed, 

Yet the pardoning power is thine un- 
restricted ; 

1 am weak ; thou art strong : in thy 

goodness and might. 

Let my sentence be light ! 

I have turned from all gifts which thy 

kindness supplied me ; 
Because of the one which thy wisdom 

denied me ; 
I have bandaged mine eyes — yea, mine 

own hands have bound me ; 
I have made me a darkness, when light 

was around me : 
i^nd I cry by the way-side : O Lord 

that I might 

Receive back my sight ! 



For the sake of my guilt, may my guilt 

be forgiven, 
And because mine in" ^uities mount unto 

heaven ! 
Let my sins, which are crimson, be 

snow in their brightness ; 
Let my sins, which are scarlet, be wool 

in their whiteness. 
I am oxxX. of the way, and my soul is 

dismayed — 

I am lost, and afraid. 

I have sinned, and against Him whose 

justice may doom me ; 
Insulted his power whose wrath can 

consume me : 
Yet, by that blest name by which angels 

adore Him — 
That name through which mortals may 

dare come before Him — 
I come, saying only, My Father above, 
My God, be thou Love ! 



CHRISTMAS. 

O TIME by holy prophets long foretold, 
Time waited for by saints in days of old, 
O sweet, auspicious morn 
When Christ, the Lord, was born ! 

Again the fixed changes of the year 
Have brought that season to the world 
most dear. 
When angels, all aflame. 
Bringing good tidings came. 

Again we think of her, the meek, the 

mild, 
The dove-eyed mother of the holy Child, 

The chosen, and the best, 

Among all women blest. 

We think about the shepherds, who, 

dismayed, 
Fell on their faces, trembling and afraid, 

Until they heard the cry. 

Glory to God on high ! 

And we remember those who from ^far 
Followed the changing glory of the star 

To where its light was shed 

Upon the sacred head : 

And how each trembling, awestruck 

worshiper 
Brought gifts of gold and frankincense 

and myrrh, 



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285 



And spread them on the ground 
In reverence profound. 

We think what joy it would nive been 

to share 
In their high privilege who came to bear 

Sweet spice and costly gem 

To Christ, in Bethlehem. 

And in that thought we half forget that 
He 

Is whereso'er we seek Him earnestly ; 
Still filling every place 
With sweet, abounding grace. 

And though in garments of the flesh, 

as then, 
No more He walks this sinful earth 
with men, 
The poor, to Him most dear, 
Are always with us here. 

And He saith, Inasmuch as ye shall take 
Good to these little ones for my dear sake. 
In that same measure ye 
Have brought it unto me ! 

Therefore, O men in prosperous homes 

who live, 
Having all blessings earthly wealth can 
give, 
Remember their sad doom 
For whom there is no room — 

No room in any home, in any bed. 
No soft white pillow waiting for the 
head, 

And spare from treasures great 

To help their low estate. 

Mothers whose sons fill all your homes 

with light, 
Think of the sons who once made homes 
as bright, 
Now laid in sleep profound 
On some sad battle-ground ; 

And into darkened dwellings come with 

cheer, 
With pitying hand to wipe the falling 
tear, 
Comfort for Christ's dear sake 
To childless mothers take ! 

Children whose lives are blest with love 

untold, 
Whose gifts are greater than your arms 

can hold, 



Think of the child who stands 
To-day with empty hands ! 

Go fill them up, and you will also fill 
Their empty hearts, that lie so cold and 
still, 
And brighten longing eyes 
With grateful, glad surprise. 

May all who have, at this blest season 

seek 
His precious little ones, the poor and 
weak, 
In joyful, sweet accord, 
Thus lending to the Lord. 

Yea, Crucified Redeemer, who didst 
give 
Thy toil, thy tears, thy life, that we 
might live. 
Thy Spirit grant, that we 
May live one day for thee ! 



COMPENSATION. 

Crooked and dwarfed the tree must stay, 
Nor lift its green head to the day, 
Till useless growths are lopped away. 

And thus doth human nature do ; 

Till it hath careful pruning too. 

It cannot grow up straight and true. 

For, but for chastenings severe. 
No soul could ever tell how near 
God comes, to whom He loveth, here. 

Without life's ills, we could not feel 
The blessed change from woe to weal ; 
Only the wounded limb can heal. 

The sick and suffering learn below, 
That which the whole can never know. 
Of the soft hand that soothes their woe. 

And never man is blest as he, 
Who, freed from some infirmity. 
Rejoices in his liberty. 

He sees, with new and glad surprise. 
The world that round about him lies. 
Who slips the bandage from his eyes ; 

And comes from where he long hath lain, 
Comes from the darkness and the pain. 
Out into God's full light again 



286 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE GARY. 



They only know who wait in fear 
The music of a footstep near, 
Falling upon the listening ear. 

And life's great depths are soonest 

stirred 
In him who hath but seldom heard 
The magic of a loving word. 

Joy after grief is more complete ; 
And kisses never fail so sweet 
As when long-parted lovers meet. 

One who is little used to such, 
Surely can tell us best how much 
There is in a kind smile or touch. 

'T is like the spring wind from the 

south, 
Or water to the fevered mouth, 
Or sweet rain falling after drouth. 

By him the deepest rest is won 
Who toils beneath the noonday sun 
Faithful until his work is done. 

And watchers through the weary night 
Have learned how pleasantly the light 
Of morning breaks upon the sight. 

Perchance the jewel seems most fair 
To him whose patient toil and care 
Has brought it to the upper air. 

And other lips can never taste 

A draught like that he finds at last 

Who seeks it in the burning waste. 

When to the mother's arms is lent, 
That sweet reward for suffering sent 
To her, from the Omnipotent, 

I think its helpless, pleading cry 
Touches her heart more tenderly. 
Because of her past agony. 

We learn at last, how good and brave 
Was the dear friend we could not 

save. 
When he has slipped into the grave. 

And after he has come to hide 

Our lambs upon the other side. 

We know our Shepherd and our Guide. 

And thus, by ways not understood, 
Out of each dark vicissitude, 
God brings us compensating good. 



For Faith is perfected by fears. 
And souls renew their youth with years, 
And Love looks into heaven through 
tears. 



RECONCILED. 

O YEARS, gone down into the past ; 

What pleasant memories come to me 
Of your untroubled days of peace, 

And hours almost of ecstasy ! 

Yet would I have no moon stand still 
Where life's most pleasant valleys lie ; 

Nor wheel the planet of the day 

Back on his pathway through the 
sky. 

For though, when youthful pleasures 
died. 

My youth itself went with them, too ; 
To-day, aye ! even this very hour, 

Is the best time I ever knew. 

Not that my Father gives to me 

More blessings than in days gone by ; 

Dropping in my uplifted hands 
All things for which I blindly cry : 

But that his plans and purposes 

Have grown to me less strange and 
dim ; 

And where I cannot understand, 
I trust the issues unto Him. 

And, spite of many broken dreams, 
This have I truly learned to say, — 

The prayers I thought unanswered once, 
Were answered in God's own best 
way. 

And though some dearly cherished 
hopes 

Perished untimely ere their birth, 
Yet have I been beloved and blessed 

Beyond the measure of my worth. 

And sometimes in my hours of grief. 
For moments I have come to stand 

Where in the sorrows on me laid, 
I felt a loving Father's hand. 

And I have learned, the weakest ones 
Are kept securest from life's harms; 

And that the tender lambs alone 
Are carried in the Shepherd's arms. 



RELIGIOUS POEMS AND HYMNS. 



I^nd, sitting by the way-side, blind, 
He is the nearest to the light, 

Who crieth out most earnestly, 
" Lord, that I might receive my 
sight ! " 

O feet, grown weary as ye walk, 

Where down life's hill my pathway 
lies, 

What care I, while my soul can mount. 
As the young eagle mounts the skies ! 

O eyes, with weeping faded out, 
What matters it how dim ye be 

My inner vision sweeps untired 
The reaches of eternity \ 

O Death, most dreaded power of all, 
When the last moment comes, and 
thou 
Darkenest the windows of my soul, 
■ Through which I look on Nature 
now ; 

Yea, when mortality dissolves. 

Shall I not meet thine hour unawed ? 

My house eternal in the heavens 
Is lighted by the smile of God ! 



THOU KNOWEST. 

Lord, with what body do they come 
Who in corruption here are sown, 

When with humiliation done, 

They wear the likeness of thine own ? 

Lord, of what manner didst thou make 
The fruits upon life's healing tree ? 

Where flows that water we may take 
And thirst not through eternity ? 

Where lie the beds of lilies prest 
By virgins whiter than their snow ? 

What can we liken to the rest 

Thy well-beloved yet shall know ? 



And 



moon shall shine by 



where no 
night. 

No sun shall rise and take his place. 
How shall we look upon the light, 
O Lamb of God, that lights thy face ? 

How shall we speak our joy that day 
We stand upon the peaceful shore. 

Where blest inhabitants shall say, 
Lo ! we are sick and sad no more ? 



287 



What anthems shall they raise to thee, 
The host upon the other side ? 

What will our depths of rapture be 
When heart and soul are satisfied ? 

How will life seem when fear, nor dread. 
Nor mortal weakness chains our 
powers ; 

When sin is crushed, and death is dead. 
And all eternity is ours ? 

When, with our lover and our spouse. 
We shall as angels be above. 

And plight no troths and breathe no 
vows. 
How shall we tell and prove our love ? 

How can we take in faith thy hand. 
And walk the way that we must 
tread ? 
How can we trust and understand 
That Christ will raise us from the 
dead ? 

We cannot see nor know to-day. 
For He hath made us of the dust : 

We can but wait his time, and say, 
Even though He slay me, will I 
trust ! 

Swift to the dead we hasten now. 
And know not even the way we go ; 

Yet quick and dead are thine, and thou — 
Thou knowest all we do not know ! 



CHRISTMAS. 

This happy day, whose risen sun 
Shall set not through eternity. 

This holy day when Christ, the Lord, 
Took on Him our humanity, 

For little children everywhere 
A joyous season still we make , 

We bring our precious gifts to them. 
Even for the dear child Jesus' sake. 

The glory from the manger shed. 
Wherein the lowly Saviour lay, 

Shines as a halo round the head 
Of every human child to-day. 

And each unconscious infant sleeps 
Intrusted to his guardian care ; 

Hears his dear name in cradle hymns. 
And lisps it in its earliest prayer. 



288 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE GARY. 



Thou blessed Babe of Bethlehem ! 

Whose life we love, whose name we 
laud ; 
Thou Brother, through whose poverty. 

We have become the heirs of God ; 

Thou sorrowful, yet tempted Man — 
Tempted in all things like as we. 

Treading with tender, human feet, 
The sharp, rough way of Calvary ; 

We do remember how, by thee. 

The sick were healed, the halting led ; 

How thou didst take the little ones 
And pour thy blessings on their head. 

We know for what unworthy men 
Thou once didst deign to toil and live ; 

What weak and sinful women thou 
Didst love, and pity, and forgive. 

And, Lord, if to the sick and poor 
We go with generous hearts to-day, 

Or in forbidden places seek 

For such as wander from the way ; 

And by our loving words or deeds 
Make this a hallowed time to them ; 

Though we ourselves be found unmeet. 
For sin, to touch thy garment's hem ; 

Wilt thou not, for thy wondrous grace, 

And for thy tender charity, 
Accept the good we do to these. 

As we had done it unto thee .■• 

And for the precious little ones. 

Here from their native heaven astray. 

Strong in their very helplessness. 
To lead us in the better way ; 

If we shall make thy natal day 
A season of delight to these, 

A season always crowded full 
Of sweet and pleasant memories ; 

Wilt thou not grant us to forget 
Awhile our weight of care and pain. 

And in their joys, bring back their joy 
Of early innocence again .'' 

O holy Child, about whose bed 
The virgin mother softly trod ; 

Dead once, yet living evermore, 
O Son of Mary, and of God ! 

If any act that we can do, 
If any thought of ours is right, 



If any prayer we lift to thee, 

May find acceptance in thy sight, 

Hear us, and give to us, to-day, 
In answer to our earnest cries. 

Some portion of that sacred love 
That drew thee to us from the skies I 



PRODIGALS. 

Again, in the Book of Books, to-day 
I read of that Prodigal, far away 

In the centuries agone. 
Who took the portion that to him fell, 
And went from friends and home ta 
dwell 

In a distant land alone. 

And when his riotous living was done, 
And his course of foolish pleasure run. 

And a fearful famine rose, 
He fain would have fed with the very 

swine, 
And no man gave him bread nor wine, 

For his friends were changed to foes. 

And I thought, when at last his state he 

knew 
What a little thing he had to do. 

To win again his place : 
Only the madness of sin to learn, 
To come to himself, repent, and turn, 

And seek his father's face. 

Then I thought however vile we are, 
Not one of us hath strayed so far 

From the things that are good and 
pure. 
But if to gain his home he tried, 
He would find the portal open wide, 

And find his welcome sure. 

My fellow-sinners, though you dwell 
In haunts where the feet take hold on 
hell. 

Where the downward way is plain ; 
Think, who is waiting for you at home, 
Repent, and corne to yourself, and come 

To your Father's house again ! 

Say, out of the depths of humility, 

" I have lost the claim of a child on thee^ 

I would serve thee with the least ! " 
And He will a royal robe prepare, 
He will call you son, and call you heir; 

And seat you at the feast. 



RELIGIOUS POEMS AND HYMNS. 



289 



Yea, fellow-sinner, rise to-day, 

And run till He meets you on the way. 

Till you hear the glad words said, — 
" Let joy through all the heavens resound, 
For this, my son, who was lost is found, 

And he lives who once was dead." 



ST. BERNARD OF CLAIRVAUX. 

In the shade of the cloister, long ago — 
They are dead and buried for cent- 
uries — 

The pious monks walked to and fro, 
Talking of holy mysteries. 

By a blameless life and penance hard. 
Each brother there had proved his 
call; 
But the one we name the St. Bernard 
Was the sweetest soul among them 
all. 

^nd oft as a silence on them fell, 
He would pause, and listen, and whis- 
per low, 
" There is One who waits for me in my 
cell; 
I hear Him calling, and I must go ! " 

No charm of human fellowship 

His soul from its dearest love can 
bind ; 
With a " yesu Dulcis " on his lip, 
He leaves all else that is sweet be- 
hind. 

The only hand that he longs to take. 
Pierced, from the cross is reaching 
down ; 
And the head he loves, for his dear sake 
Was wounded once with a' thorny 
crown. 

Ah ! men and brethren, He whose call 
Drew that holy monk with a power 
divine, 
Was the One who is calling for us all, 
Was the Friend of sinners — yours 
and mine ! 

From the sleep of the cradle to the 
grave, 
From the first low cry till the lip is 
dumb, 
Ready to help us, and strong to save, 
He is calling, and waiting till we come. 

19 



Lord ! teach us always thy voice to 
know, 
And to turn to thee from the world 
beside, 
Prepared when our time has come to go. 
Whether at morn or eventide. 

And to say when the heavens are rent in 

twain, 

When suns are darkened, and stars 

shall flee, 

Lo ! thou hast not called for us in vain, 

And we shall not call in vain for thee ! 



THE 



WIDOW'S THANKSGIV- 
ING. 



Of the precious years of my life, to- 
day 
I count another one ; 
And I thank thee, Lord, for the light is 
good. 
And 't is sweet to see the sun. 

To watch the seasons as they pass. 
Their wondrous wealth unfold, 

Till the silvery treasures of the snow 
Are changed to the harvest's gold. 

For kindly still does the teeming earth 

Her stores of ])lenty yield. 
Whether we come to bind the sheaves. 

Or only to glean in the field. 

And dwelling in such a pleasant land. 
Though poor in goods and friends, 

We may still be rich, if we live content 
With what our Father sends. 

If we feel that life is a blessed thing — 

A boon to be desired ; 
And where not much to us is given, 

Not much will be required ; 

And keep our natures sweet with the 
sense 
Of fervent gratitude, 
That we have been left to live in tha 
world. 
And to know that God is good ! 

And since there is naught of all we have. 

That we have not received : 
Shall we dare, though our treasures be 
reclaimed. 

To call ourselves bereaved .' 



290 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE GARY. 



For 't is easy to walk by sight in the day ; 

'T is the night that tries our faith ; 
And what is that worth if we render 
thanks 

For life and not for death ? 

Lo ! I glean alone ! and the children, 
Lord, 

Thou gavest unto me, 
Have one by one fled out of my arms, 

And into eternity. 

Aye, the last and the bravest of them 
died 

In prison, far away ; 
And no man, of his sepulchre, 

Knoweth the place to-day. 

Yet is not mine the bitterness 
Of the soul that doth repent ; 

If I had it now to do again, 

I would bless him that he went. 

There are many writ in the book of life 
Whose graves are marked unknown ; 

For his country and his God he died, 
And He will know his own ! 

In the ranks he fought ; but he stood 
the first 

And bravest in the lines ; 
And no fairer, brighter name than his 

On the roll of honor shines. 

And because he faltered not, nor failed 
In the march, nor under fire ; 

His great promotion came at last, 
In the call to go up higher. 

Fair wives, whose homes are guarded 
round 

By love's securities ; 
Mothers, who gather all your flock 

At night about your knees ; 

Thrice happy, happy girls, who hold 
The hand of your lovers fast ; 

Widows, who keep an only son 
To be your stay to the last : 

You never felt, though you give God 
thanks 

For his blessings day by day. 
That perfect peace which blesses Him 

For the good He takes away ; 

The joy of a soul that even in pain 
Beholds his love's decrees, 



Who sets the solitary ones 
In the midst of families. 

Lord, help me still, at the midnight 
hour, 
My lamp of faith to trim ; 
And to sing from my heart, at the break 
of day, 
A glad thanksgiving hymn : 

Nor doubt thy love, though my earthly 
joys 

Were narrowed down to this one. 
So long as the sweet day shines for me, 

And mine eyes behold the sun. 



VIA CRUCIS, VIA LUCIS. 

Questioning, blind, unsatisfied, 
Out of the dark my spirit cried, — 
Wherefore for sinners, lost, undone. 
Gave the Father his only Son ? 

Clear and sweet there came reply, — 
Out of my soul or out of the sky 
A voice like music answered : — 
God so loved the world, it said. 

Could not the Lord from heaven give 

aid? 
Why was He born of the mother-maid ? 
Only the Son of man could be 
Touched with man's infirmity ! 

Why must He lay his infant head 

In the manger, where the beasts were 

fed? 
So that the poorest here might cry, 
My Lord was as lozuly born as I ! 

Why for friends did He choose to know 
Sinners and harlots here below ? 
Not to the righteous did He come. 
But to find and bring the wanderers 
home. 

He was tempted ? Yes, He sounded then 
All that hides in the hearts of men ; 
And He knoweth, when we intercede. 
How to succor our souls in their need. 

Why should they whom He called hia 

own, 
Deny, betray Him, leave Him alone ? 
That He might know their direst pain, 
Who have trusted human love in vain I 



RELIGIOUS POEMS AND HYMNS. 



291 



Must He needs have washed the traitor's 

feet 
Ere his abasement was made complete ? 
Yea, for women have thus laid down 
Their hearts for a Judas to trample on ! 

By one cup might He not drink less ; 
Nor lose one drop of the bitterness ; 
Must He suffer, though without blame, 
Stripes and buffeting, scorn and shame ! 

Alas ! and wherefore should it be 
That He must die on Calvary ; 
Must bear the pain and the cruel thrust, 
Till his heart with its very anguish 
burst ? 

That martyrs, dying for his name. 
Whether by cross, or flood, or flame. 
Might knffiv they were called to bear no 

more 
Than He, their blessed Master, bore. 

What did He feel in that last dread 

cry? 
The height and the depth of agony I 
All the anguish a m.ortal can. 
Who dies forsaken of God and man ! 

Is there no way to Him at last 

But that where his bleeding feet have 

passed ? 
Did He not to his followers say, 
J am the Life, the Light, the Way ? 

Yea, and still from the heavetis He saith 
The gate of life is the gate of death ; 
Peace is the crown of faith'' s good fight. 
And the way of the cross is the way of 
light ! 



HVMN. 



Come down, O Lord, and with us live ! 

For here with tender, earnest call, 
The gospel thou didst freely give, 

We freely offer unto all. 

Come, with such power and saving 
grace. 

That we shall cry, with one accord, 
" How sweet and awful is this place, — 

This sacred temple of the Lord." 

Let friend and stranger, one in thee. 
Feel with such power thy Spirit move, 



That every man's own speech shall be, 
The sweet eternal speech of love. 

Yea, fill us with the Holy Ghost, 

Let burning hearts and tongues be 
given. 

Make this a day of Pentecost, 

A foretaste of the bliss of heaven ! 



OF ONE FLESH. 

A MAN he was who loved the good. 
Yet strayed in crooked ways apart ; 

He could not do the thing he would, 
Because of evil in his heart. 

He saw men garner wealth and fame, 
Ripe in due time, a precious load ; 

He fainted ere the harvest came, 
And failed to gather what he sowed. 

He looked if haply grapes had grown 
On the wild thorns that choked his 
vines ; 

When clear the truth before him shone 
He sought for wonders and for signs. 

Others Faith's sheltered harbor found 
The while his bark was tossed about 

Drifting and dragging anchor round 
The troubled, shoreless sea of doubt. 

Where he would win, he could not 
choose 

But yield to weakness and despair ; 
He ran as they who fear to lose, 

And fought as one who beats the air. 

Walking where hosts of souls have 
passed, 
By faith and hope made strong and 
brave. 
He, groping, stumbled at the last, 
And blindly fell across the grave. 

Yet speak of him in charity, 

O man ! nor write of blame one line ; 
Say that thou wert not such as he — 

He was thy brother, and was mine ! 



TEACH US TO WAIT 1 

Why are we so impatient of delay, 
Longing forever for the time to be ? 



292 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE GARY. 



For thus we live to-morrow in to-day, 
Yea, sad to-morrows we may never 
see. 

We are too hasty ; are not reconciled 
To let kind Nature do her work 
alone : 
We plant our seed, and like a foolish 
child 
We dig it up to see if it has grown. 

The good that is to be we covet now. 
We cannot wait for the appointed 
hour; 
Before the fruit is ripe, we shake the 
bough, 
And seize the bud that folds away 
the flower. 

When midnight darkness reigns we do 
not see 
That the sad night is mother of the 
morn ; 
We cannot think our own sharp agony 
May be the birth -pang of a joy unborn. 

Into the dust we see our idols cast, 
And cry, that death has triumphed, 
life is void ! 
We do not trust the promise, that the 
last 
Of all our enemies shall be destroyed ! 

With rest almost in sight the spirit 
faints. 
And heart and flesh grow weary at 
the last ; 
Our feet would walk the city of the 
saints, 
Even before the silent gate is passed. 

Teach us to wait until thou shalt ap- 
pear — 
To know that all thy ways and times 
are just ; 
Thou seest that we do believe, and fear, 
Lord, make us also to believe and 
trust 1 



IN HIS ARMS. 

If when thy children, O my friend, 
Were clasped by thee, in love's em- 
brace. 

Their guardian angels, that in heaven 
Always behold the Father's face ; 



Thine earthly home, on shining wings. 
Had entered, as of old they came, 

To grant to these whatever good. 
Thou shouldst desire, in Jesurf 
name ; — 

Or as the loving sinner came. 
And worshiped when He sat at 
meat, 
Couldst thou, thyself have come to 
Him, 
And bowed thy forehead to his feet ; 

And prayed Him by that tender love. 
He feels for those to whom He came, 

To give to thy beloved ones, 

The best thou couldst desire or 
name ; — 

What couldst thou ask so great as 
this. 
Out of his love's rich treasury. 
That He should take them in his 
arms. 
And bless, and keep them safe for 
thee .? 

Ah ! favored friend, nor faith, nor 
prayers, 
Nor richest offering ever brought 
A token of the Saviour's love 

So sweet, as thou hast gained un- 
sought ! 



The heart is not satisfied : 
For more than the world can give it 

pleads ; 
It has infinite wants and infinite needs ; 
And its every beat is an awful cry 
For love that never can change nor 
die ; 
The heart is not satisfied ! 



UNBELIEF. 

Faithless, perverse, and blind, 
We sit in our house of fear. 

When the winter of sorrow comes tO 
our souls. 
And the days of our life are dreaf . 

For when in darkness and clouds 
The way of God is concealed. 



RELIGIOUS POEMS AND HYMNS. 



293 



We doubt the words of his promises, 
And the glory to be revealed. 

We do but trust in part ; 

We grope in the dark alone , 
Lord, when shall we see thee as thou 
art, 

And know as we are known ? 

When shall we live to thee 

And die to thee, resigned, 
Nor fear to hide what we would keep. 

And lose what we would find ? 

For we doubt our Father's care. 
We cover our faces and cry. 

If a little cloud, like the hand of a man. 
Darkens the face of our sky. 

We judge of his perfect day 

By our life's poor glimmering spark ; 
■ And measure eternity's circle 

By the segment of an arc. 

We say, they have taken our Lord, 
And we know not where He lies. 

When the light of his resurrection 
morn 
Is breaking out of the skies. 

And we stumble at last when we come 
On the brink of the grave to stand ; 

As if the souls that are born of his love 
Could slip their Father's hand ? 



THE VISION ON THE MOUNT. 

Oh, if this living soul, that many a 

time 
Above the low things of the earth doth 

climb. 
Up to the mountain-top of faith sublime, 
If she could only stay 
In that high place alvvay, 
And hear, in reverence bowed, 
God's voice behind the cloud : 

Or if descending to the earth again 
Its lesson in the heart might still re- 
main ; 
If we could keep the vision, clear and 
plain, 
Nor let one jot escape, 
So that we still might shape 
Our lives to deeds sublime 
By that exalted time ; 



Ah ! what a world were ours to journey 

through ! 
What deeds of love and mercy we 

should do : 
Making our lives so beautiful and true, 
That in our face would shine 
The light of love divine, 
Showing that we had stood 
Upon the mount of God. 

But earthy of the earth, we downward 

tend. 
From the pure height of faith our feet 

descend, 
The hour of exaltation hath its end. 
And we, alas ! forget, 
In life's turmoil and fret, 
The pattern to us shown. 
When on the mount alone. 

Yea, we forget the rapture we nad 

known. 
Forget the voice that talked to us 

alone, 
Forget the brightness past, the cloud 
that shone ; 
We have no need to veil 
Our faces, dim and pale. 
So soon from out them dies 
The sweet light of the skies. 

We come down from the height where 

sve have been, 
And build our tabernacles low and 

mean, 
Not by the pattern in the vision seen 
Remembering no more. 
When once the hour is o'er. 
How in the safe cleft of the rock on 

high. 
The shadow of the Lord has passed us 

by. 



A CANTICLE. 

Be with me, O Lord, when my life 
hath increase 
Of the riches that make it com- 
plete ; 
When, favored, I walk in the pathway 
of peace. 
That is pleasant and safe to the 
feet : 
Be with me and keep me, when all the 
day long 
Delight hath no taint of alloy ; 



294 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE GARY. 



When my heart runneth over with 
laughter and song, 
And my cup with the fullness of joy. 

Be with me, O Lord, when I make my 
complaint 
Because of my sorrow and care ; 
Take the weight from my soul, that is 
ready to faint. 
And give me thy burden to bear. 
If the sun of the desert at noontide, in 
wrath 
Descends on my shelterless head, 
Be thou the cool shadow and rock in 
the path 
Of a land that is weary to tread. 

In the season of sorest affliction and 
dread, 
When my soul is encompassed with 
fears, 
Till I lie in the darkness awake on my 
bed. 
And water my pillow with tears ; 
When lonely and sick, for the tender 
delight 
Of thy comforting presence I pray, 
Come into my chamber, O Lord, in the 
night, 
And stay till the break of the day. 

Through the devious paths of the world 
be my guide, 
Till its trials and its dangers are past; 
If I walk through the furnace, be thou 
by my side. 
Be my rod and my staff to the last. 
When my crudest enemy presses me 
hard 
To my last earthly refuge and rest — 
Put thy arms underneath and about me, 
O Lord, 
Let me lie tenderly on thy breast. 

Come down when in silence I slumber 
alone. 
When the death seal is set on mine 
eyes ; 
i^reak open the sepulchre, roll off the 
stone. 
And bear me away to the skies. 
Lord, lay me to rest by the river, that 
bright 
From the throne of thy glory doth 
flow ; 
Where the odorous beds of the lilies 
are white 
And the roses of paradise blow ! 



THE CRY OF THE HEART AND 
FLESH. 

When her mind was sore bewildered. 

And her feet were gone astray. 
When she saw no fiery column. 

And no cloud before her way, — 
Then, with earnest supplication, 

To the mighty One she prayed, 
" Thou for whom we were created, 

And by whom the worlds were 
made, — 
By thy pity for our weakness, 

By thy wisdom and thy might, 
Son of God, Divine Redeemer ! 

Guide and keep me in the right ! " 

When Faith had broke her moorings. 

And upon a sea of doubt. 
Her soul with fear and darkness 

Was encompassed round about ; 
Then she said, " O Elder Brother ! 

By thy human nature, when 
Thou wert made to be in all things 

Like unto the sons of men ; 
By the hour of thy temptation. 

By thy one forsaken cry. 
Son of God and man ! have mercy, 

Send thy light down from on high ! " 

When her very heart was broken. 

Bearing more than it could bear. 
Then she clasped her anguish, crying, 

In her passionate despair, — 
" Thou who wert beloved of women, 

And who gav'st them love again, 
By the strength of thine affection, 

By its rapture and its pain, 
Son of God and Son of woman ! 

Lo ! 't is now the eventide ! 
Come from heaven, O sacred lover ! 

With thine handmaid to abide ; 
Come down as the bridegroom cometh 

From his chamber to the bride ! " 



OUR PATTERN. 

A WEAVER sat one day at his loom, 

Among the colors bright. 
With the pattern for his copying 

Hung fair and plain in sight. 

But the weaver's thoughts were wao 
dering 
Away on a distant track, 



RELIGIOUS POEMS AND HYMNS. 



295 



As he threw the shuttle in his hand 
Wearily forward and back. 

And he turned his dim eyes to the 
ground, 
And tears fell on the woof, 
For his thoughts, alas ! were not with 
his home, 
Nor the wife beneath its roof; 

When her voice recalled him suddenly 
To himself, as she sadly said : 

" Ah ! woe is me ! for your work is 
spoiled, 
And what will we do for bread ?" 

And then the weaver looked, and saw 

His work must be undone ; 
For the threads were wrong, and the 
colors dimmed. 

Where the bitter tears had run. 

" Alack, alack ! " said the weaver, 
"And this had all been right 

If I had not looked at my work, but 
kept 
The pattern in my sight ! " 

Ah ! sad it was for the weaver. 
And sad for his luckless wife : 

And sad will it be for us, if we say, 
At the end of our task of life : 

" The colors that we had to weave 
Were bright in our early years : 

But we wove the tissue wrong, and 
stained 
The woof with bitter tears. 

"We wove a web of doubt and fear — 
Not faith, and hope, and love — 

Because we looked at our work, and not 
At our Pattern up above ! " 



THE EARTHLY HOUSE. 

"Ye are the temple of God. .... If any 
man defile the temple of God, him will God de- 
stroy ; for the temple of God is holy." — i Cor- 
inthians ill. i6, 17. 

Once — in the ages that have passed 

away. 
Since the fair morning of that fairest 

day, 
When earth, in all her innocent beauty. 

stood 



Near her Creator, and He called her 

good — 
He who had weighed the planets in his 

hand, 
And dropped them in the places where 

they stand, 
Builded a little temple white and fair, 
And of a workmanship so fine and rare 
Even the star that led to Bethlehem 
Had not the value of this wondrous 

gem. 

Then, that its strength and beauty might 

endure. 
He placed within, to keep it clean and 

pure, 
A living human soul. To him He said : 
" This is the temple which my handa 

have made 
To be thy dwelling-place, or foul or 

fair. 
As thou shalt make it by neglect or 

care. 
Mar or deface this temple's sacred 

wall. 
And swift destruction on the work shall 

fall : 
Preserve it perfect in its purity. 
And God Himself shall come and dwell 

with thee ! " 

Then he for whom that holy place was 

built. 
Fair as a palace — ah, what fearful 

guilt ! — 
Grew, after tending it a little while, 
Careless, then reckless, and then wholly 

vile. 
The evil spirits came and dwelt with 

him ; 
The walls decayed, and through the 

windows dim 
He saw not this world's beauty any 

more, 
Heard no good angel knocking at his 

door ; 
And all his house, because of sin and 

crime. 
Tumbled and fell in ruin ere ift time. 

Oh, men and brethren ! we who live 

to-day 
In dwellings made by God, though 

made of clay. 
Have these our mortal bodies ever 

been 
Kept fit for Him who made them pure 

and clean ; 



296 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE GARY. 



Or was that soul in evil sunk so deep, 
He spoiled the temple he was set to 

keep. 
And turned to wastefulness and to 

abuse 
The tastes and passions that were meant 

for use ; 
So like ourselves, that we, afraid, might 

cry : 
" Lord, who destroyest the temple — is 

it I ? " 



YE DID IT UNTO ME. 

Sinner, careless, proud, and cold. 
Straying from the sheltering fold. 
Hast thou thought how patiently 
The Good Shepherd follows thee ; 
Still with tireless, toiling feet, 
Through the tempest and the heat — 
Thought upon that yearning breast. 
Where He fain would have thee rest. 
And of all its tender pain. 
While He seeks for thee in vain ? 

Dost thou know what He must feel, 
Making vainly his appeal : 
When He knocketh at thy door 
Present entrance to implore ; 
Saying, " Open unto Me, 
J will cotne and sup with thee " — 
Forced to turn away at last 
From the portal shut and fast ? 
Wilt thou careless slumber on, 
Even till thy Lord has gone. 
Heedless of his high behest, 
His desire to be thy guest ? 

Sinner, sinner, dost thou know 
What it is to slight Him so ? 
Sitting careless by the sea 
While He calleth, " Eollow me'" ; 
Sleeping, thoughtless, unaware 
Of his agonizing prayer, 
While thy sins his soul o'erpower, 
And thou canst not watch one hour ? 
Our infirmities He bore, 
And our mortal form He wore ; 
Yea, our Lord was made to be 
Here in all things like as we, 
And, that pardon we might win, 
He, the sinless, bare our sin ! 

Sinner, though He comes no more 
Faint and fasting to thy door, 
His disciples here instead 



Thou canst give the cup and bread. 
If his lambs thou dost not feed. 
He it is that feels their need : ' 
He that suffers their distress. 
Hunger, thirst, and weariness : 
He that loving them again 
Beareth all their bitter pain ! 
Canst thou then so reckless prove, 
Canst thou, darest thou slight his 
love ? 

Do not, sinner, for thy sake 
Make Him still the cross to take, 
And ascend again for thee 
Dark and dreadful Calvary ! 
Do not set the crown of pain 
On that sacred head again ; 
Opened all afresh and wide 
Closed wounds in hands and side. 
Do not, do not scorn his name 
Putting Him to open shame ! 

Oh, by all the love He knew, 
For his followers, dear and true ; 
By the sacred tears He wept 
At the tomb where Lazarus slept ; 
By Gethsemane's bitter cry. 
That the cup might pass Him by ; 
By that wail of agony, 
Why hast thou forsaken me ? 
By that last and heaviest stroke, 
When his heart for sinners broke, 
Do not let Him lose the price 
Of his awful sacrifice ! 



THE SINNER AT THE CROSS. 

Helpless before the cross I lay. 
With all to lose, or all to win. 

My steps had wandered from the way,. 
My soul was burdened with her sin ; 

I spoke no word, I made no plea. 

But this, Be merciful to me I 

To meet his gaze, I could not brook. 
Who for my sake ascended there ; 

I could not bear the angry look 
My dear offended Lord must wear ; 

Remembering how I had denied 

His name, my heart within me died. 

Almost I heard his awful voice, 

Sounding above my head in wrath ; 

Fi.xing my everlasting choice 

With such as tread the downward 
path ; 



RELIGIOUS POEMS AND HYMNS. 



297 



I waited for the words, Depart 
From me, accursed as thou art ! 

One moment, all the world was stilled. 
Then, He who saw my anguish, 
spoke ; 

I heard, I breathed, my pulses thrilled. 
And heart, and brain, and soul awoke ; 

No scorn, no wrath was in that tone, 

But pitying love, and love alone ! 

" And dost thou know, and love not 
me," 
He said, " when I have loved thee 
so ; 
It was for guilty men like thee 

I came into this world of woe ; 
To save the lost I lived and died, 
For sinners was I crucified." 

The fountain of my tears was dried. 
My eyes were lifted from the dust : 

" Jesus ! my blessed Lord ! I cried. 
And is it thou, I feared to trust ? 

And art thou He, I deemed my foe ; 

The Friend to whom I dared not go ? 

" How could I shrink from such as 
thou. 

Divine Redeemer, as thou art ! 
I know thy loving kindness now, 

I see thy wounded, bleeding heart ; 
I know that thou didst give me thine. 
And all that thou dost ask is mine ! 

" My Lord, my God ! I know at last 
Whose mercy I have dared offend ; 

I own thee now, I hold thee fast, 
My Brother, Lover, and my Friend ! 

Take me and clasp me to thy breast. 

Bless me again, and keep me blest ! 

" Thou art the man, who ne'er refused 
With sinful men to sit at meat ; 

Who spake to her who was accused 
Of men, and trembling at thy feet, 

As lips had never spoke before, 

Go uncondemned, and sin no more. 

" Dear Lord ! not all eternity 

Thy image from my heart can move, 
When thou didst turn and look on 
me, 
When first I heard thy words of 
love ; 
Repent, believe, and thou shall be. 
To-night in Paradise with me^ 



THE HEIR. 

An orphan, through the world 

Unfriended did I roam, 
I knew not that my Father lived, 

Nor that I had a home. 

No kindred might I claim, 

No lover sought for me ; 
Mine was a solitary life, 

Set in no family. 

I yielded to despair, 

I sorrowed night and morn — 
I cried, " Ah ! good it were for me, 

If I had not been born ! " 

At midnight came a man — 
He knocked upon my door ; 

He spake such tender words as man 
Ne'er spake to me before. 

I rose to let him in, 

I shook with fear and dread ; 
A lamp was shining in his hand, 

A brightness round his head. 

" And who art thou," I cried ; 

" I scarce for awe might speak ; 
And why for such a wretch as I 

Dost thou at midnight seek .' " 

"Though thou hast strayed," He 
said, 

" From me thou couldst not flee ; 
I am thy Brother and thy Friend, 

And thou shalt share with me ! 

" For me thou hast not sought, 

I sought thee everywhere ; 
Thou hast a Father and a home, 

With mansions grand and fair. 

" To thine inheritance 

I came thy soul to bring ; 
Thou art the royal heir of heaven — 

The daughter of the King ! " 



REALITIES. 

Things that I have to hold and keep, 
ah ! these 
Are not the treasures to my heart 
most dear ; 



298 



THE POEMS OF PHGEBE GARY. 



Though many sweet and precious prom- 
ises 
Have had their sweet fulfillment, even 
here. 

And yet to others, what I name my 
own 
Poor unrealities and shows might 
seem ; 
Since my best house hath no founda- 
tion-stone, 
My tenderest lover is a tender dream. 

And would you learn who leads me, if 
below 
I choose the good or from the ill for- 
bear .'' 
A little child He suffered long ago 
To come unto his arms, and keeps her 
there ! 

The alms I gii'e the beggar at my gate 
I do but lend to One who thrice re- 
pays ; 
The only heavenly bread I ever ate 
Came back to find me, after many 
days. 

The single friend whose presence can- 
not fail. 
Whose face I always see without dis- 
guise, 
Went down into the grave and left the 
veil 
Of mortal flesh that hid her from my 
eyes ! 

My clearest way is that which faith hath 
shown. 
Not that in which by sight I daily 
move ; 
And the most precious thing my soul 
hath known 
Is that which passeth knowledge, 
God's dear love. 



HYMN. 

When the world no solace gives. 

When in deep distress I groan ; 
When my lover and my friend 

Leave me with my grief alone ; 
When a weary land I tread. 

Fainting for the rocks and springs, 
Overshadow me, O Lord, 

With the comfort of thy wings ! 



When my heart and flesh shall fail, 

When I yield my mortal breath. 
When I gather up my feet, 

Icy with the chill of death ; 
Strengthen and sustain me, Lord, 

With thine all-sufficient grace : 
Overlean my dying bed 

With the sweetness of thy face ! 

When the pang, the strife is past, 

When my spirit mounts on high, 
Catch me up in thine embrace. 

In thy bosom let me lie ! 
Freed from sin and freed from death. 

Hid with thee, in heaven above, 
Oversplendor me, O God, 

With the glory of thy love. 



WOUNDED. 

O MEN with wounded souls, 
O women with broken hearts, 

That have suffered since ever the world 
was made, 
And nobly borne your parts ; 

Suffered and borne as well 

As the martyrs whom we name, 

That went rejoicing home, through floo^ 
Or singing through the flame ; 

Ye have had of Him reward 

For your battles fought and won, 

Who giveth his beloved rest 

When the day of their work is done. 

Ye have changed for perfect peace 
The pain of the ways ye trod ; 

And laid your burdens softly down. 
At the merciful feet of God ! 



A CRY OF THE HEART. 

Oh, for a mind more clear to see, 
A hand to work more earnestly 

For every good intent ; 
Oh, for a Peter's fiery zea), 
His conscience always quick to feel, 

And instant to repent 1 

Oh, for a faith more strong and true 
Than that which doubting Thomaa 
knew, 
A faith assured and clear ; 



RELIGIOUS POEMS AND HYMNS. 



299 



To know that He who for us died, 
Rejected, scorned, and crucified. 
Lives, and is with us here. 

Oh, for the blessing shed upon 
That humble, loving, sinful one. 

Who, when He sat at meat. 
With precious store of ointment came ; 
Hid from her Lord her face for shame, 

And laid it on his feet. 

Oh, for that look of pity seen 
By her, the guilty Magdalene, 

Who stood her Judge before ; 
And listening, for her comfort heard, 
The tender, sweet, forgiving word : — 

Go thou, and sin no more t 

Oh, to have stood with James and 

John, 
Where brightness round the Saviour 
shone, 
Whiter than light of day ; 
When by the voice and cloud dis- 
mayed. 
They fell upon the ground afraid. 
And wist not what to say. 



Oh, to have been the favored guest. 
That leaned at supper on his breast. 

And heard his dear Lord say : 
He who shall testify of Ale, 
The Comforter, ye may not see 

Except I go away. 

Oh, for the honor won by her. 
Who early to the sepulchre 

Hastened in tearful gloom ; 
To whom He gave his high behest. 
To tell to Peter and the rest. 

Their Lord had left the tomb. 

Oh, for the vision that sufficed 
That first blest martyr after Christ, 

And gave a peace so deep. 
That while he saw with raptured eyes 
Jesus with God in Paradise, 

He, praying, fell asleep. 

But if such heights I may not gain, 
O thou, to whom no soul in vain 

Or cries or makes complaints ; 
This only favor grant to me, — 
That I, of sinners chief, may be 

The least of all thy saints ! 



POEMS 



GRIEF AND CONSOLATION. 



EARTH TO EARTH. 

His hands with earthly work are done, 
His feet are done with roving ; 

We bring him now to thee and ask, 
The loved to take the loving. 

Part back thy mantle, fringed with green, 
Broidered with leaf and blossom, 

And lay him tenderly to sleep, 
Dear Earth, upon thy bosom. 

Thy cheerful birds, thy liberal flowers, 

Thy woods and waters only 
Gave him their sweet companionship 

And made his hours less lonely. 

Though friendship never blest his way. 
And love denied her blisses ; 

No flower concealed her face from him. 
No wind withheld her kisses. 

Nor man hath sighed, nor woman wept 
To go their ways without him ; 

So, lying here, he still will have 
His truest friends about him. 

Then part thy mantle, fringed with 
green, 

Broidered with leaf and blossom, 
And lay him tenderly to sleep, 

Dear Earth, upon thy bosom ! 



THE UNHONORED. 

Alas, alas ! how many sighs 

Are breathed for liis sad fate, who dies 

With triumph dawning on his eyes. 

What thousands for the soldier weep, 
From his first battle gone to sleep 
That slumber which is long and deep. 



But who about his fate can tell, 
Who struggled manfully and well ; 
Yet fainted on the march, and fell ? 

Or who above his rest makes moan. 
Who dies in the sick-tent alone — 
" Only a private, name unknown ! " 

What tears down Pity's cheek have run 

For poets singing in the sun, 

Stopped suddenly, their song half done. 

But for the hosts of souls below. 
Who to eternal silence go, 
Hiding their great unspoken woe ; 

Who sees amid their ranks go down. 

Heroes, that never won renown, 

And martyrs, with no martyr's crown ? 

Unrecognized, a poet slips 

Into death's total, long eclipse. 

With breaking heart, and wordless lips ; 

And never any brother true 

Utters the praise that was his due — 

" This man was greater than he knew ! " 

No maiden by his grave appears, 
Crying out in long after years, 
" I would have loved him," through her 
tears. 

We weep for her, untimely dead, 
Who would have pressed the marriage- 
bed. 
Yet to death's chamber went instead. 

But who deplores the sadder fate, 
Of her who finds no mortal mate. 
And lives and dies most desolate .-' 

Alas ! 't is sorrowful to know 

That she who finds least love below. 

Finds least pity for her woe. 



POEMS OF GRIEF AND CONSOLATION. 



301 



Hard is her fate who feels life past, 
When loving hands still hold her fast, 
And loving eyes watch to the last. 

But she, whose lids no kisses prest. 
Who crossed her own hands on her 

breast, 
And went to her eternal rest ; 

She had so sad a lot below. 

That her unutterable woe 

Only the pitying God can know ! 

When little hands are dropped away 
From the warm bosom where they lay. 
And the poor mother holds but clay ; 

What human lip that does not moan. 
What heart that does not inly groan, 
And make such suffering its own ? 

Yet, sitting mute in their despair. 
With their unnoticed griefs to bear, 
Are childless women everywhere ; 

Who never knew, nor understood. 
That which is woman's greatest good. 
The sacredness of motherhood. 

But putting down their hopes and fears, 
Claiming no pity and no tears. 
They live the measure of their years. 

They see age stealing on apace, 

And put the gray hairs from their face, 

No children's fingers shall displace ! 

Though grief hath many a form and 

show, 
I think that unloved women know 
The very bottom of life's woe ! 

And that the God who pitying sees. 
Hath yet a recompense for these, 
Kept in the long eternities ! 



JENNIE. 

You have sent me from her tomb 
A poor withered flower to keep, 
Broken off in perfect bloom, 

Such as hers, who lies asleep — 
Underneath the roses lies. 
Hidden from your mortal eyes, 
Never from your heart concealed. 
Always to your soul revealed. 



Oh, to think, as day and night 

Come and go, and go and come, 
How the smile which was its light 

Hath been darkened in your home * 
Oh, to think that those dear eyes. 
Copied from the summer skies. 
Could have veiled their heavenly blue 
From the sunshine, and from you ! 

Oh, to have that tender mouth. 
With its loveliness complete. 

Shut up in its budding youth 

From all kisses, fond and sweet ! 

Fairest blossom, red and rare. 

Could not with her lips compare ; 

Yea, her mouth's young beauty shamed 

All the roses ever named. 

Why God hid her from your sight. 
Leaving anguish in her place, 

At the noonday sent the night, 
Night that almost hid his face, 

Not to us is fully shown. 

Not to mortals can be known. 

Though they strive, through tears and 
doubt. 

Still to guess his meaning out. 

Full of mysterv 't is, and yet 

If you clasped still those charms, 
Mother, might you not forget 

Mothers who have empty arms .<• 
If you satisfied in her 

Every want and every need, 
Could you be a comforter 

To the hearts that moan and bleed ? 

Take this solace for your woe : 
God's love never groweth dim ; 

All of goodness that you know. 
All your loving comes from him ! 

You say, " She has gone to death ! " 

Very tenderly, God saith : 

" Better so ; I make her mine. 

And my love exceedeth thine ! " 



COWPER'S CONSOLATION.i 

He knew what mortals know when tried 
By suffering's worst and last extreme ; 

' The most important events of Cowper's lattet 
years were audibly announced to him before they 
occurred. We find him writing of Mrs. Unwin's 
'■ approaching and sudden death,'' when her 
neahh, ahhough feeble, was not such as to oc- 
casion alarm. His lucid intervals, and the re* 



?02 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE GARY. 



He knew the ecstacy allied 

To bliss supreme. 

Souls, hanging on his melody, 

Have caught his rapture of belief ; 
The heart of all humanity 

Has felt his grief. 

In sweet compassion and in love 

Poets about his tomb have trod ; 
And softly hung their wreaths above 
The hallowed sod. 

His hymns of victory, clear and strong, 

Over the hosts of sin and doubt, 
Still make the Christian's battle-song, 
And triumph-shout. 

Tasting sometimes his Father's grace. 

Yet for wise purposes allowed 
Seldom to see the " smiling face " 
Behind the cloud ; 

Surely when he was left the prey 

Of torments only Heaven can still, 
" God moved in a mysterious way " 
To work his will. 

Yet many a soul through life has trod 

Untroubled o'er securest ground, 
Nor knew that " closer walk with God " 
His footsteps found. 

"With its great load of grief to bear, 
The reed, though bruised, might not 
break ; 
God did not leave him to despair, 
Nor quite forsaken 

The pillow by his tear-drops wet. 
The stoniest couch that heard his 
cries. 
Had near a golden ladder set 

That touched the skies. 

And at the morning on his bed, 

And in sweet visions of the night, 
^ngels, descending, comforted 

His soul with light. 

Standing upon the hither side, 

How few of all the earthly host 
Have singled those whose feet have 
trod 

The heavenly coast. 

turn of his disorder, were announced, to him in 
tlie same remarkable manner. — Cowper's /4 k- 
dible Illusions. 



Yet his it was at times to see. 

In glimpses faint and half-revealed. 
That strange and awful mystery 

By death concealed. 

And, as the glory thus discerned 

His heart desired, with strong desire ; 
By seraphs touched, his sad lips burned 
With sacred fire. 

As ravens to Elijah bare, 

At morn and eve, the promised bread ; 
So by the spirits of the air 

His soul was fed. 

And, even as the prophet rose 

Triumphant on the flames of love, 
The fiery chariot of his woes 

Bore him above. 

Oh, shed no tears for such a lot. 

Nor deem he passed uncheered, alone ; 
He walked with God, and he was not, 
God took his own ! 



TWICE SMITTEN. 

O DOUBLY-BOWED and bruised reed. 
What can I offer in thy need .-' 

O heart, twice broken with its grief, 
What words of mine can bring relief ? 

soul, o'erwhelmed with woe again, 
How can I soothe thy bitter pain .'' 

Abashed and still, I stand and see 
Thy sorrow's awful majesty. 

Only dumb silence may convey 
That which my lip can never say. 

1 cannot comfort thee at all ; 
On the Great Comforter I call ; 

Praying that He may make thee see 
How near He hath been drawn to thee. 

For unto man the angel guest 
Still comes through gates of suffering 
best ; 

And most our Heavenly Father cares 
For whom He smites, not whom He 
spares. 



POEMS OF GRIEF AND CONSOLATION. 



303 



So, to his chastening meekly bow, 
Thou art of his beloved now ! 



BORDER-LAND. 

I KNOW you are always by my side 
And I know you love me, Winifred 
dear, 
For I never called on you since you 
died. 
But you answered, tenderly, I am 
here ! 

So come from the misty shadows, where 
You came last night, and the night 
before. 
Put back the veil of your golden hair, 
And let me look in your face once 
more. 

Ah ! it is you ; with that brow of truth, 
]^J!IILver too pure for the least dis- 
guise ; 
With the same dear smile on the loving 
mouth. 
And the same sweet light in the ten- 
der eyes. 

You are my own, my darling still. 
So do not vanish or turn aside. 

Wait till my eyes have had their fill, — 
Wait till my heart is pacified ! 

You have left the light of your higher 
place, 
And ever thoughtful, and kind, and 
good. 
You come with your old familiar face, 
And not with the look of your angel- 
hood. 

Still the touch of your hand is soft and 
light. 
And your voice is gentle, and kind, 
and iow. 
And the very roses you wear to-night. 
You wore in the summers long ago. 

O world, you may tell me I dream or 
rave. 
So long as my darling comes to 
prove 
That the feet of the spirit cross the 
grave, 
And the loving live, and the living 
love ! 



THE LAST BED. 

'T WAS a lonesome couch we came to 
spread 

For her, when her little life was o'er. 
And a narrower one than any bed 

Whereon she had ever slept before. 

And we feared that she could not slum- 
ber so. 
As we stood about her when all was 
done. 
For the pillow seemed too hard and 
low 
For her precious head to rest upon. 

But, when we had followed her two by 
two. 
And lowered her down there where 
she lies, 
There was nothing left for us to do. 
But to hide it all from our tearful 
eyes. 

So we softly and tenderly spread be- 
tween 

Our face and the face our love regrets, 
A covering, woven of leafy green. 

And spotted over with violets. 



LIGHT. 



While I hid mine eyes, I feared ; 

The heavens in wrath seemed bowed ; 
I look, and the sun with a smile breaks 
forth. 

And a rainbow spans the cloud. 

I thought the winter was here. 
That the earth was cold and bare, 

But I feel the coming of birds and 
flowers. 
And the spring-time in the air. 

I said that all the lips 

I ever had kissed were dumb ; 
That my dearest ones were dead and 
gone. 

And never a friend would come. 

But T hear a voice as sweet 

As the fall of summer showers ; 

And the grave that yawned at my very 
feet 
Is filled to the top with flowers ! 



304 



THE POEMS OF PIKE BE GARY. 



As if 't were the midnight hour, 

I sat with gloom opprest ; 
When a light was breaking out of the 
east, 

And shining unto the west. 

I heard the angels call 

Across from the beautiful shore ; 
And I saw a look in my darling's 
eyes. 

That never was there before. 

Transfigured, lost to me. 

She had slipped from my embrace ; 
Now lo ! I hold her fast once more. 

With the light of God on her face ! 



WAITING THE CHANGE. 

I HAVE no moan to make. 

No bitter tears to shed ; 
No heart, that for rebellious grief, 

Will not be comforted. 

There is no friend of mine 
Laid in the earth to sleep ; 

No grave, or green or heaped afresh. 
By which I stand and weep. 

Though some, whose presence once 
Sweet comfort round me shed. 

Here in the body walk no more 
The way that I must tread, 

Not they, but what they wore 
Went to the house of fear ; 

They were the incorruptible, 
They left corruption here. 

The veil of flesh that hid 
Is softly drawn aside ; 



More clearly I behold them now 
Than those who never died. 

Who died ! what means that word 
Of men so much abhorred .-' 

Caught up in clouds of heaven to be 
Forever with the Lord ! 

To give this body, racked 

With mortal ills and cares, 
For one as glorious and as fair 

As our Redeemer wears ; 

To leave our shame and sin. 

Our hunger and disgrace ; 
To come unto ourselves, to turn 

And find our Father's face ; 

To run, to leap, to walk. 

To quit our beds of pain. 
And live where the inhabitants 

Are never sick again ; 

To sit no longer dumb. 

Nor halt, nor blind ; to rise — 

To praise the Healer with our tongue, 
And see him with our eyes; 

To leave cold winter snows, 
And burning summer heats. 

And walk in soft, white, tender light, 
About the golden streets. 

Thank God ! for all my loved, 

That out of pain and care. 
Have safely reached the heavenly 
heights. 

And stay to meet me there ! 

Not these I mourn ; I know 
Their joy by faith sublime — 

But for myself, that still below 
Must wait my appointed time. 



PERSONAL POEMS. 



READY. 

Loaded with gallant soldiers, 

A boat shot into the land. 
And lay at the right of Rodman's Point, 

With her keel upon the sand. 

Lightly, gayly, they came to shore, 

And never a man afraid, 
When sudden the enemy opened fire. 

From his deadly ambuscade. 

Each man fell flat on the bottom 
Of the boat ; and the captain said : 

*' If we lie here, we all are captured. 
And the first who moves is dead ! " 

Then out spoke a negro sailor, 

No slavish soul had he ; 
" Somebody 's got to die, boys, 

And it might as well be me ! " 

Firmly he rose, and fearlessly 

Stepped out into the tide ; 
He pushed the vessel safely off. 

Then fell across her side : 

Fell, pierced by a dozen bullets. 

As the boat swung clear and free ; — 

But there was n't a man of them that 
day 
Who was fitter to die than he ! 



DICKENS. 

•One story more," the whole world 
cried. 

The great magician smiled in doubt : 
*' I am so tired that, if I tried, 

I fear I could not tell it out." 

" But one is all we ask," they said ; 

" You surely cannot faint nor fail." 
^gain he raised his weary head. 

And slow began the witching tale. 



The fierce debater's tongue grew mute. 
Wise men were silent for his sake j 

The poet threw aside his lute. 

And paused enraptured while he 
spake. 

The proudest lady in the land 

Forgot that praise and power were 
sweet ; 
She dropped the jewels from her hand, 

And sat enchanted at his feet. 

Lovers, with clasped hands lightly prest. 
Saw Hope's sweet blossoms bud and 
bloom ; 
Men, hastening to their final rest. 

Stopped, half-enraptured with the 
tomb. 

Children, with locks of brown and gold. 
Gathered about like flocks of birds ; 

The poor, whose story he had told. 
Drew near and loved him for his 
words. 

His eye burns bright, his voice is strong, 
A waiting people eager stands ; 

Men on the outskirts of the throng 
Interpret him to distant lands. 

When lo ! his accents, faltering, fall ; 

The nations, awe-struck, hold their 
breath ; 
The great magician, loved of all. 

Has sunk to slumber, tired to death I 

His human eyes in blind eclipse 
Are from the world forever sealed , 

The " mystery" trembling on his lips 
Shall never, never be revealed. 

Yet who would miss that tale half told, 
Though weird and strange, or sweet 
and true ; 
Who care to listen to the old, 
If he could hear the strange and 
new? 



3o6 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE CARY. 



Alas ! alas ! it cannot be ; 

We too must sleep and change and 
rise, 
To learn the eternal mystery 

That dawned upon his waking eyes ! 



THADDEUS STEVENS, 

An eye with the piercing eagle's fire, 
Not the look of the gentle dove; 

Not his the form that men admire, 
Nor the face that tender women love. 

Working first for his daily bread 

With the humblest toilers of the 
earth ; 

Never walking with free, proud tread — 
Crippled and halting from his birth 

Wearing outside a thorny suit 

Of sharp, sarcastic, stinging power ; 

Sweet at the core as sweetest fruit, 
Or inmost heart of fragrant flower. 

Fierce and trenchant, the haughty foe 
Felt his words like a sword of flame ; 

But to the humble, poor, and low 
Soft as a woman's his accents came. 

Not his the closest, tenderest friend — 
No children blessed his lonely way. 

But down in his heart until the end 
The tender dream of his boyhood lay. 

His mother's faith he held not fast ; 

But he loved her living, mourned her 
dead. 
And he kept her memory to the last 

As green as the sod above her bed. 

He held as sacred in his home 

Whatever things she wrought or 
planned, 
And never suffered change to come 
To the work of her " industrious 
hand." 

For her who pillowed first his head 
He heaped with a wealth of flowers 
the grave, 
While he chose to sleep in an unmarked 
bed. 
By his Master's humblest poor — the 
slave. 1 

1 Thaddeus Stevens, who cared nothing about 



Suppose he swerved from the straightest 
course — 
That the things he should not do he 
did — 
That he hid from the eyes of mortals, 
close. 
Such sins as you and I have hid ? 

Or suppose him worse than you ; what 
then? 

Judge not, lest you be judged for sin ! 
One said who knew the hearts of men : 

Who loveth much shall a pardon win. 

The Prince of Glory for sinners bled ; 

His soul was bought with a royal price ; 
And his beautified feet on flowers may 
tread 

To-day with his Lord in Paradise. 



JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 

Great master of the poet's art ! 

Surely the sources of thy powers 
Lie in that true and tender heart 

Whose every utterance touches ours. 

For, better than thy words, that glow 
With sunset dyes or noontide heat, 

That count the treasures of the snow, 
Or paint the blossoms at our feet, 

Are those that teach the sorrowing how 
To lay aside their fear and doubt. 

And in submissive love to bow 
To love that passeth finding out. 

And thou for such hast come to be 
In every home an honored guest — 

Even from the cities by the sea 
To the broad prairies of the West. 

Thy lays have cheered the humble home 
Where men who prayed for freedom 
knelt ; 

And women, in their anguish dumb. 
Have heard thee utter what they felt. 

And thou hast battled for the right 
With many a brave and trenchant 
word, 

his own burial-iilace, except that the spot should 
be one from wliich the humblest of his fellow 
creatures were not excluded, left by will one 
thousand dollars to beautify and adorn the graw 
of his mother. 





Great master of the poet's art." Page 306. 



PERSONAL POEMS. 



307 



And shown us how the pen may fight 
A mightier battle than the sword. 

And therefore men in coming years 
Shall chant thy praises loud and long ; 

And women name thee through their 
tears 
A poet greater than his song. 

But not thy strains, with courage rife, 
Nor holiest hymns, shall rank above 

The rhythmic beauty of thy life, 
Itself a canticle of love ! 



THE HERO OF FORT WAGNER. 

Fort Wagner ! that is a place for us 
To remember well, my lad ! 

For us, who were under the guns, and 
know 
The bloody work we had. 

I should not speak to one so young, 

Perhaps, as I do to you ; 
But you are a soldier's son, my boy, 

And you know what soldiers do. 

And when peace comes to our land 
again, 

And your father sits in his home. 
You will hear such tales of war as this, 

For many a year to come. 

We were repulsed from the Fort, you 
know. 

And saw our heroes fall. 
Till the dead were piled in bloody heaps 

Under the frowning wall. 

Yet crushed as we were and beaten 
back. 

Our spirits never bowed ; 
And gallant deeds that day were done 

To make a soldier proud. 

Brave men were there, for their coun- 
try's sake 
To spend their latest breath ; 
But the bravest was one who gave his 
life 
And his body after death. 

No greater words than his dying ones 
Have been spoken under the sun ; 

Not even his, who brought the news 
On the field av Ratisbon. 



I was pressing up, to try if yet 
Our men might take the place, 

And my feet had slipped in his oozmg 
blood 
Before I saw his face. 

His face ! it was black as the skies o'er- 
head 
With the smoke of the angry guns ; 
And a gash in his bosom showed the 
work 
Of our country's traitor sons. 

Your pardon, my poor boy ! I said, 

I did not see you here ; 
But I will not hurt you as I pass ; 

I '11 have a care ; no fear ! 

He smiled ; he had only strength to 
say 

These words, and that was all : 
" I 'm done gone, Massa ; step on me; 

And you can scale the wall ! " 



GARIBALDI IN PIEDMONT. 

Hemmed in by the hosts of the Aus* 
trians, 

No succor at hand, 
Adown the green passes of Piedmont, 

That beautiful land, 

Moves a patriot band. 

Two long days and nights, watchful, 
sleepless, 
Have they ridden nor yet 
Checked the rein, though the feet of 
their horses, 
In the ripe vineyard set. 
By its wine have been wet. 

What know they of weariness, hunger, 
What good can they lack. 

While they follow their brave Garibaldi, 
Who never turns back. 
Never halts on his track ? 

By the Austrians outnumbered, sur- 
rounded, 
On left and on right ; 

Strong and fearless he moves as a giant; 
Who rouses to fight 
From the slumbers of night. 

So, over the paths of Orfano, 
His brave horsemen tread. 



308 



THE POEMS OF PHCF.BE GARY. 



Long after the sun, halting wearied, 
Hath hidden his head 
In his tent-folds of red. 

Every man with his eye on his leader, 
Whom a spell must have bound. 

For he rideth as still as the shadow, 
That keeps step on the ground. 
In a silence profound. 

With the harmony Nature is breath- 
ing, 

His soul is in tune ; 
He is bathed in a bath of the splendor 

Of the beautiful moon. 

Of the air soft as June ! 

But what sound meets the ear of the 
soldier ; 

What menacing tone ? 
For look ! how the horse and the rider 

Have suddenly grown 

As if carved in stone. 

Leaning down toward that fair grove of 
olives 
He waits ; doth it mean 
That he catches the tramp of the Aus- 
trians. 
That his quick eye hath seen 
Their bayonets' sheen .'' 

Nay ! there, where the thick leaves 
about her 

By the music are stirred, 
Sits a nightingale singing her rapture. 

And the hero hath heard 

But the voice of a bird 1 

A. hero ! aye, more than a hero 

By this he appear ; 
A man, with a heart that is tender, 

Unhardened by years ; 

Who shall tell what he hears ? 

Not the voice of the nightingale only, 
Floating soft on the breeze, 

But the music of dear human voices, 
And blended with these 
The sound of the seas. 

Ah, the sea, the dear sea ! from the 
cradle 
She took him to rest ; 
Leaping out from the arms of his 
mother. 
He went to her breast 
And was softly caressed. 



Perchance he is back on her bosom. 
Safe from fear or alarms, 

Clasping close as of old that first mis- 
tress 
Whose wonderful charms 
Drew him down to her arms. 

By the memories that come with that 
singing 

His soul has been wiled 
Far away from the danger of battle ; 

Transported, beguiled. 

He again is a child, 

Sitting down at the feet of the mother, 
Whose prayers are the charm 

That ever in conflict and peril 
Has strengthened his arm. 
And kept him from harm. 

Nay, who knows but his spirit that mo- 
ment 
Was gone in its quest 

Of that bright bird of paradise, vanished 
Too soon from the nest 
Where her lover was blest ! 

For unerring the soul finds its kindred, 

Below or above ; 
And, as over the great waste of waters 

To her mate goes the dove, 

So love seeks its love. 

Did he see her first blush, burning 
softly 
His kisses beneath ; 
Or her dear look of love, when he held 
her 
Disputing with Death 
For the last precious breath ? 

Lost Anita ! sweet vision of beauty, 

Too sacred to tell 
Is the tale of her dear life, that, hidden 

In his heart's deepest cell. 

Is kept safely and well. 

And what matter his dreams ! He 
whose bosom 

With such rapture can glow 
Hath something within him more sacred 

Than the hero may show. 

Or the patriot know. 

And this praise, for man or for hero. 

The best were, in sooth ; 
His heart, through life's conflict an<i 
peril, 



PERSONAL POEMS. 



309 



Has kept its first truth, 
And the dreams of its youth. 



JOHN BROWN. 

Men silenced on his faithful lips 

Words of resistless truth and pow- 
er ; — 

Those words, reechoing now, have made 
The gathering war-cry of the hour. 

They thought to darken down in blood 
The light of freedom's burning rays ; 

The beacon-fires we tend to-day 
Were lit in that undying blaze. 

They took the earthly prop and staff 
Out of an unresisting hand ; 

God came, and led him safely on, 
By ways they could not understand. 

They knew not, when from his old eyes 
They shut the world for evermore, 

The ladder by which angels come 
Rests firmly on the dungeon's floor. 

They deemed no vision bright could 
cheer 

His stony couch and prison ward ; 
He slept to dream of Heaven, and rose 

To build a Bethel to the Lord ! 

They showed to his unshrinking gaze 
The " sentence " men have paled to 
see , 

He read God's writing of " reprieve," 
And grant of endless liberty. 

They tried to conquer and subdue 
By marshaled power and bitter hate ; 

The simple manhood of the man 
Was braver than an armed state. 

They hoped at last to make him feel 
The felon's shame, and felon's dread ; 

ft.nd lo ! the martyr's crown of joy 
Settled forever on his head ! 



OTWAY. 

Poet, whose lays our memory still 
Back from the past is bringing. 

Whose sweetest songs were in thy life 
And never in thy singing ; 



For chords thy hand had scarcely 
touched 

By death were rudely broken. 
And poems, trembling on thy lip, 

Alas ! were never spoken. 

We say thy words of hope and cheer 
When hope of ours would languish. 

And keep them always in our hearts 
For comfort in our anguish. 

Yet not for thee we mourn as those 
Who feel by God forsaken ; 

We would rejoice that thou wert lent, 
Nor weep that thou wert taken. 

For thou didst lead us up from earth 

To walk in fields elysian, 
And show to us the heavenly shore 

In many a raptured vision. 

Thy faith was strong from earth's last 
trial 

The spirit to deliver. 
And throw a golden bridge across 

Death's dark and silent river ; 

A bridge, where fearless thou didst 
pass 

The stern and awful warder. 
And enter with triumphant songs 

Upon the heavenly border. 

Oh, for a harp like thine to sing 
The songs that are immortal ; 

Oh, for a faith like thine to cross 
The everlasting portal ! 

Then might we tell to all the world 
Redemption's wondrous story ; 

Go down to death as thou didst go, 
And up from death to glory. 



OUR GOOD PRESIDENT. 

Our sun hath gone down at the noon- 
day. 

The heavens arc black ; 
And over the morning, the shadows 

Of night-time are back. 

Stop the proud boasting mouth of the 
cannon ; 

Hush the mirth and the shout ; — 
God is God ! and the ways of Jehovah 

Are past finding out. 



3IO 



THE POEMS OF PHOEBE GARY. 



Lo ! the beautiful feet on the mountains, 

That yesterday stood, 
The white feet that came with glad tid- 
ings 

Are dabbled in blood. 

The Nation that firmly was settling 

The crown on her head, 
Sits like Rizpah, in sackcloth and ashes, 

And watches her dead. 

Who is dead ? who, unmoved by our 
wailing. 
Is lying so low ? 
O my Land, stricken dumb in your an- 
guish. 
Do you feel, do you know, 

That the hand which reached out of the 
darkness 
Hath taken the whole ; 
Yea, the arm and the head of the peo- 
ple, — 
The heart and the soul ? 

And that heart, o'er whose dread awful 
silence 
A nation has wept ; 
Was the truest, and gentlest, and sweet- 
est, 
A man ever kept. 



Why, he heard from the dungeons, the 
rice-fields. 
The dark holds of ships 
Every faint, feeble cry which oppres- 
sion 
Smothered down on men's lips. 

In her furnace, the centuries had weld* 
ed 
Their fetter and chain ; 
And like withes, in the hands of his pur- 
pose. 
He snapped them in twain. 

Who can be what he was to the peo- 
ple, — 

What he was to the state ? 
Shall the ages bring to us another 

As good and as great ? 

Our hearts with their anguish are 
broken, 

Our wet eyes are dim ; 
For us is the loss and the sorrow, 

The triumph for him ! 

For, ere this, face to face with his Fa» 
ther 

Our martyr hath stood ; 
Giving into his hand a white record, 

With its great seal of blood 1 



POEMS FOR CHILDREN. 



TO THE CHILDREN. 

Dear little children, where'er you be, 
Who are watched and cherished ten- 
derly 
By father and by mother ; 
Who are comforted by the love that 

lies 
In the kindly depths of a sister's eyes, 
Or the helpful words of a brother : 

I charge you by the years to come, 
When some shall be far away from 
your home, 
And some shall be gone forever ; 
By all you will have to feel at the last. 
When you stand alone and think of the 
past, 
That you speak unkindly never ! 

For cruel words, nay, even less, 
Words spoken only in thoughtlessness, 

Nor kept against you after ; 
If they made the face of a mother sad. 
Or a tender sister's heart less glad, 

Or checked a brother's laughter ; 

Will rise again, and they will be heard, 
And every thoughtless, foolish word 

That ever your lips have spoken, 
After the lapse of years and years, 
Will wring from you such bitters tears 

As fall when the heart is broken. 

May you never, never have to say, 
When a wave from the past on some 
dreary day 
Its wrecks at your feet is strewing, 
" My father had not been bowed so 

low, 
Nor my mother left us long ago. 
But for deeds of my misdoing ! " 

May you never stand alone to weep 
Where a little sister lies asleep, 
With the flowery turf upon her 



And know you would have gone down 

to the dead 
To save one curl of her shining head 
From sorrow or dishonor : 

Yet have to think, with bitter tears, 
Of some little sin of your childish years. 

Till your soul is anguish-riven ; 
And cry, when there comes no word or 

smile, 
" I sinned, but I loved you all the while, 

And I wait to be forgiven ! " 

May you never say of a brother dear, 
" Did I do enough to aid and cheer, 

Did I try to help and guide him ? 
Now the snares of the world about him 

lie, 
And if unhonored he live and die, 

I shall wish I were dead beside him ! " 

Dear little innocent, precious ones. 
Be loving, dutiful daughters and sons. 

To father and to mother ; 
And, to save yourselves from the bitter 

pain 
That comes when regret and remorse 
are vain. 
Be good to one another ! 



GRISELDA GOOSE. 

Near to a farm-house, and bordered 
round 

By a meadow, sweet with clover, 
There lay as clear and smooth a pond 

As ever a goose swam over. 

The farmer had failures in corn and 
hops, 
From drought and various reasons ; 
But his geese had never failed in their 
crops 
In the very worst of seasons. 



312 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE GARY. 



And he had a flock, that any day 

Could defy all sneers and slanders ; 
They were certainly handsome, — that 
is to say, 
They were handsome for geese and 
ganders I 

And, once upon a time, in spring, 
A goose hatched out another, — 

The softest, cunningest, downiest thing. 
That ever gladdened a mother. 

There was never such a gosling born, 
So the geese cried out by dozens ; 

She was praised and petted, night and 
morn. 
By aunts, and uncles, and cousins. 

She must have a name with a lofty 
sound, 
Said all, when they beheld her ; 
So they proudly led her down to the 
pond. 
And christened her, Griselda ! 

Now you think, no doubt, such love and 
pride 

Must perfectly content her ; 
That she grew to goosehood satisfied 

To be what Nature meant her. 

But folk with gifts will find it'out, 
Though the world neglects that duty ; 

And a lovely female will seldom doubt, 
Though others may, her beauty ! 

And if she had thought herself a fright, 
And been content with her station. 

She would n't have had a story to write. 
Nor I, my occupation. 

But indeed the truth compels me to 
own, 

Whoever may be offended. 
That my heroine's vanity was shown 

Ere her gosling days were ended. 

When the mother tried to teach the art 
Of swimming to her daughter. 

She said that she didn't like to start, 
Because it ruffled the water. 

"My stars!" cried the parent, "do I 
dream, 
Or do I rightly hear her ? 
Can it be she would rather sit still on 
the stream, 
Than spoil her beautiful mirror ? " 



Yet, if any creature could be so fond 
Of herself, as to reach insanity, 

A goose, who lives on a glassy pond. 
Has most excuse for such vanity ! 

And I do not agree with those who said 
They would glory in her disgraces ; 

Hers is n't the only goose's head 
That ever was turned by praises. 

And Griselda swallowed all their praise: 

Though she said to her doting mother, 

" Still, a goose is a goose, to the end of 

her days. 

From one side of the world to the 

other ! 

" And as to my name it is well enough 

To say, or sing, or whistle ; 
But you just wait till I 'm old and tough, 

And you '11 see they will call me 
Grisde ! " 

So she went, for the most of the time, 
alone, 

Because she was such a scoffer ; 
And, awful to tell ! she was nearly grown 

Before she received an offer ! 

" Nobody will have her, that is clear," 
Said those who spitefully eyed her ; 

Though they knew every gander,' far 
and near. 
Was dying to waddle beside her. 

And some of those that she used to 
slight. 

Now come to matronly honor. 
Began to feel that they had a right 

To quite look down upon her. 

And some she had jilted were heard to 
declare, 
" I do not understand her ; 
And I should n't wonder, and should n't 
care. 
If she never got a gander ! " 

But she said so all could overhear, — 
And she hoped their ears might tin* 
gle,- 
" If she could n't marry above theij 
sphere. 
She preferred remaining single ! " 

She was praised and flattered to her face 
And blamed when she was not pres 
ent ; 



POEMS FOR CHILDREN. 



313 



And between her friends and foes, her 
place 
Was anything but pleasant. 

One day she learned what gave her a 
fright, 
And a fit of deep dejection ; 
And she said to herself, that come what 
might, 
She would cut the whole connection. 

The farmer's wife to the geese pro- 
posed, 
Their spending the day in the sta- 
ble ; 
And the younger ones, left out, sup- 
posed 
She would set an e.xtra table. 

So they watched and waited till day was 
done, 
With curiosity burning ; 
• For it was n't till after set of sun. 
That they saw them back returning. 

Slowly they came, and each was bowed 
As if some disgrace was upon her ; 

They did n't look as those who are 
proud 
Of an unexpected honor ! 

Each told the naked truth : 't was a 
shock, 
But who that saw, could doubt her .' 
They had plucked the pluckiest goose 
of the flock. 
Of all the down about her. 

Said Miss Griselda, " That 's my doom. 

If I stay another season ; " 
So she thought she 'd leave her roosting 
room ; 

And I think she had some reason. 

Besides, there was something else she 
feared ; 

For oft in a kind of flurry, 
A goose mysteriously disappeared. 

And did n't come back in a huny. 

And scattered afterwards on the 
ground, — 

Such things there is no mistaking, — 
FamiDar looking bones were found, ' 

Which set her own a-quaking. j 

She said, " Tliere is danger if I stay. 
From which there are none exempted ; I 



So, though I perish in getting away, 
The thing shall be attempted." 

And, perfectly satisfied about 
Her claims to a foreign mission, 

She slipped away, and started out 
On a secret expedition. 

And oh ! how her bosom swelled with 
pride ; 

How eager hope upbore her ; 
As floating down the stream, she spied 

A broad lake spread before her. 

And bearing towards her, fair and 
white. 

The pleasant breezes courting, 
A flock of swans came full in sight. 

On the crystal waters sporting. 

She saw the lake spread clear and wide, 
And the rich man's stately dwelling. 

And felt the thrill of hope and pride 
Her very gizzard swelling. 

" These swans," she said, " are quite 
unknown, 

Even to their ranks and stations ; 
Yet I think I need not fear to own 

Such looking birds for relations. 

" Besides, no birds that walk on lawns 
Are made for common uses ; 

Men do not take their pick of swans 
In the way they do of gooses. 

" Blanch Swan ! I think I '11 take that 
name, 

Nor be ashamed to wear it ; 
Griselda Goose ! that sounds so tame 

And low, I cannot bear it ! " 

Thought she, the brave deserve to 
win. 
And only they can do it : 
So she made her plan, and sailed right 
in. 
Determined to go through it. 

Straight up she went to the biggest 
swan. 

The one who talked the loudest ; 
For she knew the secret of getting on 

Was standing up with the proudest. 

" Madam," she said, " I am glad you 're 
home, 
And I hope to know you better ; 



314 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE GARY. 



You're an aunt of mine, I think, but I 
come 
With an introductory letter." 

Then she fumbled, and said, " I 've lost 
the thing ! 
No matter ! I can quote it ; 
And here 's the pen," and she raised 
her wing, 
" With which Lord Swansdown wrote 
it. 

" Of course you never heard of me. 
As I 'm rather below your station ; 

But a lady famed like yourself, you 
see. 
Is known to all creation." 

Then to herself the old swan said, 
" Such talk 's not reprehensible ; 

Indeed, for a creature country-bred, 
She 's very shrewd and sensible." 

Griselda saw how her flattery took, 
And cried, on the silence breaking, 

" You see I have the family look. 
My neck there is no mistaking. 

"It doesn't compare with yours; you 
know 
I 've just a touch of the democracy ; 
While your style and manner plainly 
show 
Your perfect aristocracy." 

Such happy flattery did the thing : 
Though the young swans doubtfully 
eyed her, 

My Lady took her under her wing, 
And kept her close beside her. 

And Griselda tried at ease to appear. 
And forget the home she had quitted ; 

For she told herself she had reached a 
sphere 
At last for which she was fitted. 

Though she had some fits of common 
sense. 
And at times grew quite dejected ; 
For she was n't deceived by her own 
pretense, 
And she knew what others suspected. 

If ever she went alone to stray. 

Some pert young swan to tease her 

Would ask, in a patronizing way. 
If their poor home did n't please her ? 



Sometimes when a party went to sail 
On the lake, in pleasant weather, 

As if she was not within the pale, 
She was left out altogether. 

And then she would take a haughty 
tone, 

As if she scorned them, maybe ; 
But often she hid in the weeds alone. 

And cried like a homesick baby. 

One day when she had gone to her 
room. 
With the plea that she was ailing. 
They asked some rather gay birds to 
come 
For the day, and try the sailing. 

But they said, " She will surely hear the 
stir. 

So we '11 have to let her know it ; 
Of course we are all ashamed of her, 

But it will not do to show it." 

So one of them went to her, and said, 
With a sort of stately rustle : 

" I suppose you would rather spare 
your head 
Than join in our noise and bustle ! 

" If you wish to send the slightest ex- 
cuse, 
I '11 be very happy to take it ; 
And I hope you 're not such a little 
goose 
As to hesitate to make it ! " 

Too well Griselda understood ; 

And said, " Though my pain 's dis- 
tressing, 
I think the change will do me good. 

And I do not mind the dressing." 

'T was the " little goose " that made her 

mad, 

So mad she would n't refuse her ; 

Though she saw from the first how very 

glad 

Her friend would be to excuse her. 

She had overdone the thing, poor swan ! 

As her ill success had shown her ; 
Shot quite beyond the mark, and her gun 

Recoiled and hit the owner. 

" Don't you think," she cried, " I 've 
done my best ; 
But as sure as I 'm a sinner. 



POEMS FOR CH/LDREAT. 



That little dowdy, frightfully dressed, 
Is coming down to dinner ! 

" I tried in every way to show 

That I thought it an impropriety ; 

But I s'pose the creature does n't know 
The manners of good society ! " 

Griselda thought, " If it comes to that, 
With the weapon she takes I '11 meet 
her. 

She 's sharp, but I '11 give her tit for tat, 
And I think that I can beat her." 

So she came among them quite at ease, 
By her very look contriving 

To say, " I 'm certain there 's nothing 
could please 
You so much as my arriving." 

A.nd her friend contrived to whisper low. 
As she made her genuflexion : 

" A country cousin of ours, you know ; 
A very distant connection ! 

" She has n't much of an air, you see, 
And is rather new to the city ; 

Aunt took her up quite from charity. 
And keeps her just from pity." 

But Griselda paid her, fair and square, 
For all her sneers and scorning ; 

And "they^/i? was quite a successful af- 
fair," 
So the papers said next morning. 

And yet she cried at the close of day. 
Till the lake almost ran over, 

To think what a price she had to pay 
To get into a sphere above her. 

" Alas ! " she said, " that our common 
sense 

Should be lost when others flatter ; 
I was born a goose, and no pretense 

Will change or help the matter ! " 

At last she did nothing but mope and 
fret. 

And think of effecting a clearance ! 
She got as low as a lady can get, — 

She did n't regard her appearance ! 

She got her pretty pink slippers soiled 
By wearing them out in baa weather ; 

And as for her feathers, they were not 
oiled 
Sometimes for a week together. 



315 



Had she seen just how to bring it about. 
She would have left in a minute ; 

But she found it was harder getting out 
Of trouble than getting in it. 

She looked down at the fish with en- 
vious eyes. 

Because each mother's daughter, 
Content in her element, never tries 

To keep her head above water ! 

She wished she was by some good luck, 
Turned into a salmon finny ; 

Into a chicken, or into a duck : 
She wished herself in Guinea. 

One day the Keeper came to the lake, 
And if he did n't dissemble, 

She saw that to her he meant to take, 
In a way that made her tremble. 

With a chill of fear her feathers shook, 
Although to her friend she boasted 

He had such a warm, admiring look, 
That she feared she should be roast- 
ed ; 

And that for very modesty's sake, 
Since nothing else could shield her, 

She would go to the other end of the 
lake. 
And stay till the night concealed her. 

So, taking no leave, she stole away, 
And nobody cared or missed her ; 

But the geese on the pond were sur- 
prised, next day, 
By the sight of their missing sister. 

She told them she strayed too far and 
got lost ; 
And though being from home had 
pained her. 
Some wealthy friends that she came a- 
cross. 
Against her will detained her. 

But it leaked from the lake, or a bird of 
the air 

Had carried to them the matter ; 
For even before her, her story was there, 

And they all looked doubtfully at her. 

Poor Griselda ! unprotected, alone. 
By their slights and sneers was nettled ; 

For all the friends that her youth had 
known 
Were respectably married and settled ; 



3i6 



THE FORMS OF PHCEBE GARY. 



Or all but one, — a poor old coot, 
That she used to scorn for a lover ; 

He was shabbier now, and had lost a 
foot, 
That a cart-wheel had run over. 

But she said, " There is but one thing 
to be done 

For stopping sneers and slanCnrs ; 
For a lame excuse is better than none, 

And so is the lamest of gander-j ! " 

So she married him, but do you know. 
They did not cease to flout her ; 

For she somehow could n't make it go 
With herself, nor those about her. 

They spoke of it with scornful lip. 
Though they did n't exactly drop her ; 

As if 't was a limited partnership, 
And not a marriage proper. 

And yet in truth I 'm bound to say 
Her state was a little better ; 

Though I heard her friend say yesterday 
To another one, who met her, — 

"Oh, I saw old Gristle Goose to-night, 
(Of course I did not seek it) ; 

I suppose she is really Mrs. White, 
Though it sticks in my crop to speak 
it ! " 



THE ROBIN'S NEST. 

Jenny Brown has as pretty a house of 
her own 
As ever a bird need to want, I should 
think ; 
And the sheltering vine that about it 
had grown, 
Half hid it in green leaves and roses 
of pink. 

As she never looked shabby, or seemed 
out of date, 
It was surely enough, though she had 
but one dress ; 
And Robin, the fellow she took for her 
mate. 
Was quite constant — that is, for a 
Robin, I guess. 

Jenny Brown had four birdies, the cun- 
ningest things 
That ever peeped back to a mother- 
bird's call ; 



That only could flutter their soft downy 
wings, 
And open their mouths to take food 
— that was all. 

Now I dare say you think she was 
happy and gay, 
And she was almost always content- 
ed ; but yet. 
Though I know you will hardly believe 
what I say. 
Sometimes she would ruffle her feath- 
ers and fret. 

One day, tired of flying about in the 
heat, 
She came home in her crossest and 
sulkiest mood ; 
And though she brought back not a 
morsel to eat. 
She pecked little Robin for crying for' 
food. 

Just then Robin came and looked in 
through the trees. 
And saw with a quick glance that all 
was not right. 
But he sung out as cheerful and gay as 
you please : 
" Why, Jenny, dear Jenny, how are 
you to-night .'' " 

It made her more angry to see him so 
calm. 
While she suffered all that a bird 
could endure ; 
And she answered, " ' How am I .'' ' who 
cares how I am ? 
It is n't you, Robin, for one, I am 
sure ! 

" You know I 've been tied here day in 
and day out, 
Till I 'm tired almost of my home and 
my life. 
While you — you go carelessly roving 
about. 
And singing to every one else but 
your wife." 

Then Robin replied : " Little reason 
you 've got 
To complain of me, Jenny ; wherever 
I roam 
I still think of you, and your quieter 
lot. 
And wish 't was my place to stay here 
at home. 



---5-^- 







± =pS^ 



POEMS FOR CHILDREN. 



317 



* And as to my singing, I give you my 
word, 
'T is in concert, and always in public, 
beside ; 
For excepting yourself, there is no lady- 
bird 
Knows the softest and lovingest notes 
I have tried. 

"And, Jenny," — and here he spoke 
tenderly quite. 
As with head drooped aside he drew 
nearer and stood, — 
" I heard some sad news as I came 
home to-night, 
About our poor neighbors that live in 
the wood. 

" You know Nelly Jay, that wild, 
thoughtless young things 
Who takes in her children and home 
no delight. 
But early and late is abroad on the 
wing. 
To chatter and gossip from morning 
till night, — 

" Well, yesterday, just after noon, she 
went out. 
And strayed till the sun had gone 
down in the west ; 
Complaining to some of her friends, 
I 've no doubt, 
Of the trouble she had taking care of 
her nest ; 

"And her sweet little Nelly, — you've 
seen her, my dear, 
The brightest and sprightliest bird of 
them all, 
The age of our Jenny, I think, very 
near, 
Tumbled out of the nest and was 
killed by the fall. 

" I saw the poor thing lying stiff on the 
ground, 
With its little wing broke and the 
film o'er its eyes, 
While the mother was flying distract- 
edly round 
And startling the wood with her pit- 
eous cries. 

'■*As I stopped, just to say a kind, com- 
forting word, 
I thought how my own home was 
guarded and blessed ; 



For, Jenny, my darling, my beauty, my 
bird, 
I knew I should find you content in 
the nest ! 

"And how are our birdies ? — the dear 
little things ; 
How softly and snugly asleep they 
are laid ; 
But don't fold them quite so close under 
your wings, 
Or you '11 kill them with kindness, 
my pet, I 'm afraid. 

" And, Jenny, I '11 stay with them now, 
— nay, I must. 
While you go out a moment, and take 
the fresh air ; 
You sit here too much by yourself, I 
mistrust. 
And are quite overburdened with 
work and with care. 

" What, you don't want to go ! you 
want nothing so long 
As your dear little ones and your 
Robin are here ? 
Then I '11 stay with you, Jenny, and 
sing the old song 
I sang when I courted you — shall I, 
my dear.'" 



RAIN AND SUNSHINE. 

I WAS out in the country 

To feel the sweet spring, 
I was out in the country 

To hear the birds sing ; 
To bask in the sunshine. 

Breathe air pure and sweet, 
And walk where the blossoms 

Grew under my feet. 

So at morning I woke 

While my chamber was dark, 
And was u]) — or I should have been- 

Up with the lark. 
Only no lark was rising ; 

And never a throat 
Of bird since the morning 

Had uttered a note. 

It was raining, and sadly 

I gazed on the skies, 
Saying, " Nothing is left us 

To gladden our eyes ; 



3i8 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE GARY. 



And no pleasanter sound 

Than this drip on the pane ! " 

When I caught a soft patter 
That was not the rain. 

First I heard the light falling 

Of feet on the stair, 
Then the voice of a child 

Ringing clear through the air. 
And with ej-es wide awake, 

And curls tumbled about, 
Came Freddy, the darling, 

With laugh and with shout. 

No longer we heeded 

The rain or the gloom ; 
His smile, like the sunshine, 

Illumined the room ; 
We missed not the birds 

While his glad voice was nigh : 
His lips were our roses, 

His eyes were our sky. 

Sweet pet of the household, 

And hope of each heart, 
God keep thee, dear Freddy, 

As pure as thou art. 
And make thee, when changes 

And sorrows shall come, 
The comfort and sweetness 

And sunshine of home ! 



BABY'S RING. 

Mother's quite distracted. 

Sister 's in despair ; 
All the household is astir. 

Searching everywhere. 
Every nook must be explored. 

Every corner scanned — 
Baby 's lost the tiny ring 

From her little hand. 

Surely never such a babe 

Made a mother glad ; 
Never such a dainty hand 

Any baby had ! 
Smallest ring was ever made 

Off her finger slips ; 
She should have a fairy's ring 

For such rosy tips. 

When she comes to womanhood, 

If she keeps so fair, 
She will surely wear the ring 

Maidens love to wear ; 



And lest she should lose it then, 
(She '11 be wise and deep,) 

She will give to somebody 
Ring and hand to keep. 



DON'T GIVE UP. 

If you 've tried and have not won, 

Never stop for crying ; 
All that 's great and good is done 

Just by patient trying. 

Though young birds, in flying, fall. 
Still their wings grow stronger ; 

And the next time they can keep 
Up a little longer. 

Though the sturdy oak has known 
Many a blast that bowed her. 

She has risen again, and grown 
Loftier and prouder. 

If by easy work you beat, 

Who the more will prize you ? 

Gaining victory from defeat. 
That '9 the test that tries you ! 



THE GOOD LITTLE SISTER. 

That was a bitter winter 

When Jenny was four years old 

And lived in a lonely farm-house — 
Bitter, and long, and cold. 

The crops had been a failure — 

In the barns there was room to spare ; 

And Jenny's hard-working father 
Was full of anxious care. 

Neither his wife nor children 
Knew lack of fire or bread ; 

They had whatever was needful, 

Were sheltered, and clothed, and 
fed. 

But the mother, alas ! was ailing — 
'T was a struggle just to live ; 

And they scarce had even hopeful words 
Or cheerful smiles to give. 

A good, kind man was the father. 
He loved his girls and boys ; 

But he whose hands are his riches 
Has little for gifts and toys. 



POEMS FOR CHILDREN. 



319 



So when it drew near the season 
That makes the world so glad — 

When Jenny knew 't was the time for 
gifts, 
Her childish heart was sad. 

For she thought, " I shall get no pres- 
ent 

When Christmas comes, I am sure ; " 
Ah ! the poor man's child learns early 

Just what it means to be poor. 

Yet still on the holy even 

As she sat by the hearth-stone bright, 
And her sister told good stories, 

Her heart grew almost light. 

For the hopeful skies of childhood 

Are never quite o'ercast : 
And she said, " Who knows but some- 
how, 

Something will come at last ! " 

Lo, before she went to her pillow, 
Her pretty stockings were tied 

Safely together and slyly hung, 
Close to the chimney side. 

There was little room for hoping, 
One would say who had lived more 
years ; 

Yet the faith of the child is wiser 
Sometimes than our aoubts and fears. 

Jenny had a good little sister. 
Very big to her childish eyes. 

Who was womanly, sweet, and patient, 
And kind as she was wise. 

And she had thought of this Christ- 
mas, 

And the little it could bring, 
Ever since the crops were half destroyed 

By the freshet in the spring. 

So the sweetest nuts of the autumn 
She had safely hidden away ; 

And the ripest and reddest apples 
Hoarded for many a day. 

And last she mixed some seed-cakes 

(Jenny was sleeping then). 
And moulded them grotesquely, 

Like birds, and beasts, and men. 

Then she slipped them into the stock- 
ings, 
And smiled to think about 



The joyful wonder of her pet. 

When she found and poured them 
out. 

And you could n't have seen next morn- 
ing 

A gladder child in the land 
Than that humble farmer's daughter, 

With her simple gifts in her hand. 

And the loving sister ? ah ! you know 

How blessed 't is to give ; 
And they who think of others most 

Are the happiest folks that live ! 

She had done what she could, my chil- 
dren. 

To brighten that Christmas Day ; 
And whether her heart or Jenny's 

Was lightest, it is hard to say. 

And this, if you have but little. 
Is what I would say to you : 

Make all you can of that little — 
Do all the good you can do. 

And though your gifts may be humble, 

Let no little child, I pray. 
Find only an empty stocking 

On the morn of the Christmas Day 1 

'T is years and years since that sister 
Went to dwell with the just ; 

And over her body the roses 
Blossom and turn to dust. 

And Jenny 's a happy woman. 

With wealth enough and to spare ; 

And every year her lap is filled 
With presents fine and rare. 

But whenever she thanks the givers 

For favors great and small. 
She thinks of the good little sister 

Who gave her more than they all ! 



NOW. 



If something waits, and you should 
now 

Begin and go right through it. 
Don't think, if 't is put off a day, 

You'll not mind to do it. 

Waste not moments, no nor words. 
In telling what you could do 



^20 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE CARY. 



Some other time ; the present is 
For doing what you should do. 

Don't do right unwillingly, 

And stop to plan and measure ; 

'T is working with the heart and soul, 
That makes our duty pleasure. 



THE CHICKEN'S MISTAKE. 

A LITTLE downy chicken one day 
Asked leave to go on the water, 

Where she saw a duck with her brood 
at play, 
Swimming and splashing about her. 

Indeed, she began to peep and cry. 
When her mother would n't let her : 

" If the ducks can swim there, why 
can't I ; 
Are they any bigger or better ? " 

Then the old hen answered, " Listen to 
me, 

And hush your foolish talking ; 
Just look at your feet, and you will see 

They were only made for walking." 

But chicky wistfully eyed the brook, 
And didn't half believe her. 

For she seemed to say, by a knowing 
look, 
" Such stories could n't deceive her." 

And as her mother was scratching the 
ground, 
She muttered lower and lower, 
" I know I can go there and not be 
drowned, 
And so I think I '11 show her." 

Then she made a plunge, where the 
stream was deep. 

And saw too late her blunder ; 
For she had n't hardly time to peep 

Till her foolish head went under. 

And now I hope her fate will show 
The child, my story reading, 

That those who are older sometimes 
know 
What you will do well in heeding, 

That each content in his place should 
dwell. 
And envy not his brother ; 



And any part that is acted well. 
Is just as good as another. 

For we all have our proper sphere be- 
low. 
And this is a truth worth knowing. 
You will come to grief if you try to go 
Where you never were made for go- 
ing 



EFFIE'S REASONS. 

Tell me, Effie, while you are sitting, 

Cosily beside me here, 
Talking all about your brothers. 

Which you like the best, my dear. 

" Tom is good sometimes," said Efiie, 

" Good as any boy can be ; 
But at other times he does n't 

Seem to care a bit for me. 

" Half the days he will not help me. 
Though the way to school is rough ; 

Nor assist me with my lessons. 

When he knows them well enough. 

" But, of course, I love him dearly — 
He 's a brother like the rest. 

Though I know he 's not the best one ; 
And I do no'w love him best. 

" Now there 's Charlie, my big brother, 
Oh ! he 's always just as kind ! 

All day I may ask him questions. 
And he does n't seem to mind. 

" He with every lesson helps me, 
And he 's sure to take my part ; 

So I think I ought to love him — 
And I do with all my heart. 

" But there 's cunning little Neddy — 
Well, he 's not so awful good ; 

But he never seems to mean it 
When he answers cross or rude. 

" Sometimes, half in fuii, he strikes me^ 

Just, I mean, a little blow ; 
But he 'd never, never do it 

If he thought it hurt, I know. 

" Then again he 's nice and pleasant, 
Coaxing me and kissing me ; 

When he wants to ask a favor, 
lie 's as good as he can be. 



POEMS FOR CHILDREN. 



321 



* He can't help me with my lessons, 
He has liardly learned to spell ; 

But in everything I help him, 
And I like it just as well. 

" He is never good as Charlie ; 

Naughtier oft than Tom, I know ; 
But for all that I love him, 

Just because I love him so ! " 



FEATHERS. 

You restless, curious little Jo, 

I have told you all the stories I know, 

Written in jjoem or fable ; 
I have turned them over, and let you 

look 
At everything like a picture-book 

Upon my desk or table. 

I think it 's enough to drive one wild 
To be shut up with a single child, 

And try for a day to please her. 
Oh dear me ! what does a mother do, 
Especially one who lives in a shoe. 

And has a dozen to tease her .'' 

" Aha ! I 've found the very thing," 
I cried, as I saw the beautiful wing 

Of a bird, and I said demurely : 
" Now, if you '11 be good the rest of the 

day, 
I '11 give you a bird with which to play; 

You know what a bird is, surely ? " 

" Oh, yes ! " and she opened wide her 

eyes, 
" A bird is alive, and sings and flies ; 

Then, folding her hands together. 
She archly shook her wise little head. 
And, looking very innocent, said, 

" I know a bird from a feather ! " 

Well ! of all the smart things uttered 

yet 
By a baby three years old, my pet ! 

It 's enough to frighten your mother. 
Why, I 've seen women — yes, and men. 
Who have lived for threescore years 
and ten. 
Who did n't know one from the 
other ! 

Now there is Kittv, past sixteen — 
The one with the soldier beau, I mean — 
When he makes his bayonet rattle, 



And acts so bravely on parade, 
She thinks he would n't be afraid 
In the very front of battle. 

But yet, if I were allowed to guess, 
I should say her soldier was all in the 
dress. 
And you '11 find my guess is the right 
one. 
If ever he has to meet the foe. 
The first, and only feather he '11 show 
That day will be a white one. 

There 's Mrs. Pie, in her gorgeous 

plumes ; 
Why, half the folks who visit her 
rooms. 
Because she is dressed so finely 
And holds herself at the highest price. 
Pronounce her a bird of ])aradisc, 
And say she sings divinely ; 

While many a one, with a sweeter lay. 
Because her feathers are plain and gray. 

The world's approval misses. 
And only gets its scorn and abuse ; 
She is called a failure, and called a 
goose, 

And her song is met with hisses. 

Men will stick as many plumes on their 

head 
As an Indian chief who has bravely 

shed 
The blood of a hostile nation. 
When all the killing they 've done or 

seen 
Was killing themselves — that is, I 

mean 
In the public estimation. 

When Tom to his pretty wife was wed, 
" She 's fuss and feathers," people said, 

That any woman could borrow ; 
And sure enough, her feathers fell. 
Though the fuss was the genuine arti- 
cle. 

As Tom has found to his sorrow. 

When Mrs. Butterfly, who was a grub, 

First got her wings, she was such a 

snob. 

She scorned the folks around her, 

And made, as she said, the feathers 

fly; 

But when she fell, she had gone so high. 
She was smashed as fiat as a floun- 
der. 



322 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE GARY. 



Alas, alas ! my little Jo, 

I 'm sorry to tell it, and sorry it 's so ; 

But as to deceiving, I scorn to. 
And I only hope that when you are 

grown 
You will keep the wonderful wisdom 
you 've shown. 
Nor lose the wit you were bom to. 

But whether folks, so wise when they 're 

small. 
Can ever live to grow up at all. 

Is one of the doubtful whethers. 
I 'm sure it happens but seldom, though, 
Or there would n't be so many, you 
know. 
Who can't tell birds from feathers. 



THE PRAIRIE ON TIRE. 

The long grass burned brown 

In the summer's fierce heat, 
Snaps brittle and dry 

'Neath the traveler's feet, 
As over the prairie. 

Through all the long day, 
His white, tent-like wagon 

Moves slow on its way. 

Safe and snug with the goods 

Are the little ones stowed, 
And the big boys trudge on 

By the team in the road ; 
"While his sweet, patient wife. 

With the babe on her breast, 
Sees their new home in fancy. 

And longs for its rest. 

But hark ! in the distance 

That dull, trampling tread; 
And see how the sky 

Has grown suddenly red ! 
What has lighted the west 

At the hour of noon "i 
It is not the sunset. 

It is not the moon ! 

The horses are rearing 

And snorting with fear, 
And over the prairie 

Come flying the deer 
With hot smoking haunches, 

And eyes rolling back, 
As if the fierce hunter 

Were hard on their track. 



The mother clasps closer 

The babe on her arm, 
While the children cling to her 

In wildest alarm ; 
And the father speaks low 

As the red light mounts higher : 
" We are lost ! we are lost ! 

'T is the prairie on fire ! " 

The boys, terror-stricken. 

Stand still, all but one : 
He has seen in a moment 

The thing to be done 
He has lighted the grass. 

The quick flames leap in air; 
And the pathway before them 

Lies blackened and bare. 

How the fire-fiend behind 

Rushes on in his power ; 
But nothing is left 

For his wrath to devour. 
On the scarred smoking earth 

They stand safe, every one, ' 
While the flames in the distance 

Sweep harmlessly on. 

Then reverently under 

The wide sky they kneel. 
With spirits too thankful 

To speak what they feel ; 
But the father in silence 

Is blessing his boy. 
While the mother and children 

Are weeping for joy. 



DAPPLEDUN. 

A LITTLE boy who, strange to say, 
Was called by the name of John, 

Once bought himself a little horse 
To ride behind, and upon. 

A handsomer beast you never saw. 

He was so sleek and fat ; 
" He has but a single fault," said John, 

" And a trifling one at that." 

His mane and tail grew thick and long 
He was quick to trot or run ; 

His coat was yellow, flecked with brown; 
John called him Dappledun. 

He never kicked and never bit ; 
In harness well he drew ; 



POEMS FOR children: 



323 



But this was the single fooh'sh thing 
That Dappledun would do. 

He ran in clover up to his knees, 
His trough was filled with stuff ; 

Yet he 'd jump the neighbor's fence, and 
act 
As if he had n't enough. 

If he only could have been content 
With his feed of oats and hay. 

Poor headstrong, foolish Dappledun 
Had been alive to-day. 

But one night when his rack was filled 

With what he ought to eat, 
He thrust his nose out of his stall, 

And into a bin of wheat. 

And there he ate, and ate, and ate, 
And when he reached the tank 

Where Johnny watered him next 
morn, 
He drank, and drank, and drank. 

And when that night John carried him 
The sweet hay from the rick, 

lie lay and groaned, and groaned, and 
groaned. 
For Dappledun was sick. 

And when another morning came 
And John rose from his bed 

And went to water Dappledun, 
Poor Dappledun was dead ! 



SUPPOSE! 

Suppose, my little lady. 

Your doll should break her head. 
Could you make it whole by crying 

Till your eyes and nose are red .'' 
And would n't it be pleasanter 

To treat it as a joke ; 
And say you 're glad " 'T was Dolly's 

And not your head that broke .'' " 

Suppose you 're dressed for walking. 

And the rain comes pouring down. 
Will it clear off any sooner 

Because you scold and frown ? 
And would n't it be nicer 

For you to smile than pout. 
And so make sunshine in the house 

When there is none without .■" 



Suppose your task, my little man, 

Is very hard to get. 
Will it make it any easier 

For you to sit and fret .'' 
And would n't it be wiser 

Than waiting like a dunce. 
To go to work in earnest 

And learn the thing at once "i 

Suppose that some boys have a horse, 

And some a coach and pair, 
Will it tire you less while walking 

To say, " It is n't fair.' " 
And would n't it be nobler 

To keep your temper sweet, 
And in your heart be thankful 

You can walk upon your feet .'' 

And suppose the world don't please 
you, 

Nor the way some people do. 
Do you think the whole creation 

Will be altered just for you } 
And is n't it, my boy or girl. 

The wisest, bravest plan. 
Whatever comes, or does n't come, 

To do the best you can t 



A LEGEND OF THE NORTH- 
LAND. 

Away, away in the Northland, 

Where the hours of the day are few. 

And the nights are so long in winter. 
They cannot sleep them through ; 

Where they harness the swift reindeer 
To the sledges, when it snows ; 

And the children look like bear's cubs 
In their funny, furry clothes : 

They tell them a curious story — 

I don't believe 't is true ; 
And yet you may learn a lesson 

If I tell the tale to you. 

Once, when the good Saint Peter 

Lived in the world below, 
And walked about it, preaching, 

Just as he did, you know ; 

Pie came to the door of a cottage, 
In traveling round the earth. 

Where a little woman was making 
cakes. 
And baking them on the hearth ; 



324 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE GARY. 



And being faint with fasting, 
For the day was ahnost done, 

He asked her, from her store of cakes, 
To give him a single one. 

So she made a very little cake, 

But as it baking lay. 
She looked at it, and thought it seemed 

Too large to give away. 

Therefore she kneaded another. 

And still a smaller one ; 
But it looked, when she turned it over, 

As large as the first had done. 

Then she took a tiny scrap of dough, 
And rolled and rolled it flat ; 

And baked it thin as a wafer — 
But she could n't part with that. 

For she said, " My cakes that seem too 
small 

When I eat of them myself. 
Are yet too large to give away." 

So she put them on the shelf. 

Then good Saint Peter grew angry, 
For he was hungry and faint ; 

And surely such a woman 

Was enough to provoke a saint. 

And he said, " You are far too selfish 

To dwell in a human form. 
To have both food and shelter, 

And fire to keep you warm. 

" Now, you shall build as the birds do, 
And shall get your scanty food 

By boring, and boring, and boring. 
All day in the hard dry wood." 

Then up she went through the chim- 
ney. 

Never speaking a word. 
And out of the top flew a woodpecker, 

For she was changed to a bird. 

She had a scarlet cap on her head, 
And that was left the same. 

But all the rest of her clothes were 
burned 
Black as a coal in the flame. 

And every country school-boy 

Has seen her in the wood ; 
Where she lives in the trees till this very 
day. 

Boring and boring for food. 



And this is the lesson she teaches : 

Live not for yourself alone. 
Lest the needs you will not pity 

Shall one day be your own. 

Give plenty of what is given to you, 

Listen to pity's call ; 
Don't think the little you give is great, 

And the much you get is small. 

Now, my little bo)% remember that, 
And try to be kind and good, 

When you see the woodpecker's sooty 
dress. 
And see her scarlet hood. 

You may n't be changed to a bird, 
though you live 
As selfishly as you can ; 
But you will be changed to a smaller 
thing — 
A mean and selfish man. 



EASY LESSONS. 

Come, little children, come with me. 
Where the winds are singing merrily, 

As they toss the crimson clover ; 
We '11 walk on the hills and by the 

brooks. 
And I '11 show you stories in prettier 
books 
Than the ones you are poring over. 

Do you think you could learn to sing a 

song, 
Though you drummed and hummed it 
all day long. 
Till hands and brains were aching. 
That would match the clear, untutored 

notes 
That drop from the pretty, tender throats 
Of birds, when the day is breaking } 

Did you ever read, on any page. 
Though written with all the wisdom of 
age, 
And all the truth of preaching. 
Any lesson that taught you so plain 
Content with your humble work and 
gain. 
As the golden bee is teaching ? 

For see, as she floats on her airy wings, 
How she sings and works, and works 
and sings, 



POEMS FOR children: 



325 



Never stopping nor staying ; 
Showing us clearly what to do 
To make of du'^v a pleasure, too, 

And to mak'. our work but playing. 

Do you suppose that a book can tell 
Maxims of prudence, half so well 

As the little ant, who is telling 
To man, as she patiently goes and 

comes, 
Bearing her precious grains and crumbs, 

How want is kept from the dwelling ? 

Whatever a story can teach to you 
Of the good a little thing may do. 

The hidden brook is showing, 
Whose quiet way is only seen 
Because of its banks, so fresh and green. 

And the flowers beside it growing. 

If we go where the golden lily grows. 
Where, clothed in raiment fine, she 
glows 
Like a king in all his glory. 
And ponder over each precious leaf, 
We shall find there, written bright and 
brief. 
The words of a wondrous story. 

We shall learn the beautiful lesson there 
That our Heavenly Father's loving care, 

Even the lily winneth ; 
For rich in beauty thus she stands, 
Arrayed by his gracious, tender hands. 

Though she toileth not, nor spinneth. 

There is n't a blossom under our feet. 
But has some teaching, short and sweet, 

That is richly worth the knowing ; 
And the roughest hedge, or the sharpest 

thorn, 
Is blest with a power to guard or warn, 

If we will but heed its showing. 

So do not spoil your happy looks 
By poring always over your books. 

Written by scholars and sages ; 
For there 's many a lesson in brooks or 

birds. 
Told in plainer and prettier words 

Than those in your printed pages. 

And yet, I would not have you think 
No wisdom comes through pen and ink. 

And all books are dull and dreary ; 
For not all of life can be pleasant play. 
Nor every day a holiday. 

And tasks must be hard and weary. 



And that is the very reason v. hy 
I would have you learn from earth and 
sky 
Their lessons of good, and heed them : 
For there our Father, with loving hand, 
Writes truths that a child may under- 
stand, 
So plain that a child can read them. 



OBEDIENCE. 

If you 're told to do a thing, 
And mean to do it really ; 

Never let it be by halves ; 
Do it fully, freely ! 

Do not make a poor excuse. 
Waiting, weak, unsteady ; 

All obedience worth the name, 
Must be prompt and ready. 



THE CROW'S CHILDREN. 

A HUNTSMAN, bearing his gun a-field, 

Went whistling merrily ; 
When he heard the blackest of black 
crows 

Call out from a withered tree : 

" You are going to kill the thievish 
birds, 

And I would if I were you ; 
But you must n't touch my family, 

Whatever else you do ! 

" I 'm only going to kill the birds 
That are eating up my crop ; 

And if your young ones do such things, 
Be sure they '11 have to stop." 

" Oh," said the crow, " my children 
Are the best ones ever born ; 

There is n't one among them all 
Would steal a grain of corn." 

" But how shall I know which ones they 
are } 
Do they resemble you .'' " 
" Oh no," said the crow, " they 're the 
prettiest birds. 
And the whitest that ever flew ! " 

So off went the sportsman, whistling, 
And off, too, went his gun ; 



326 



THE POEMS OF rilCEBE GARY. 



And its startling echoes never ceased 
Again till the day was done. 

And the old crow sat untroubled, 

Cawing away in her nook ; 
For she said, " He '11 never kill my 
birds, 

Since I told him how they look. 

" Now there 's the hawk, my neighbor, 
She '11 see what she will see, soon ; 

And that saucy whistling blackbird 
May have to change his tune ! " 

When, lo ! she saw the hunter 
Taking his homeward track. 

With a string of crows as long as his 
gun, 
Hanging down his back. 

" Alack, alack ! " said the mother, 
" What in the world have you done ? 

You promised to spare my pretty birds, 
And you 've killed them every one." 

" Your birds ! " said the puzzled hunter, 
" Why, I found them in my corn ; 

And besides, they are black and ugly 
As any that ever were born ! " 

" Get out of my sight, you stupid ! " 

Said the angriest of crows ; 
" How good and fair her children are, 

There 's none but a parent knows ! " 

" Ah ! I see, I see," said the hunter, 

" But not as you do, quite ; 
It takes a mother to be so blind 

She can't tell black from white ! " 



HIVES AND HOMES. 

When March has gone with his cruel 
wind. 
That frightens back the swallow, 
And the pleasant April sun has shined 
Out through her showery clouds, we 
find 
Pale blooms in the wood and hollow. 

But after the darling May awakes. 
Bedecked with flowers like a fairy ; 

About the meadows and streams and 
lakey 

She drops them every step she takes, 
For she has too many to carry. 



And when June has set in the leafy 
trees 

Her bird-tunes all a-ringing, 
Wherever a blossom nods in the breeze 
The good, contented, cheerful bees 

Are found at work and singing. 

Ah, the wise little bees ! they know how 
to live. 

Each one in peace with his neighbor ; 
For though they dwell in a narrow hive, 
They never seem too thick to thrive. 

Nor so many they spoil their labor. 

And well may they sing a pleasant tune, 
Since their life has such complete 
ness ; 
Their hay is made in the sun of June 
And every moon is a honeymoon. 
And home a home of sweetness. 

The golden belts they wear each day 

Are lighter than belts of money ; 
And making work as pleasant as play, 
The stings of life they give away, 
And only keep the honey. 

They are teaching lessons, good and 
true. 
To each idle drone and beauty, 
And, my youthful friends, if any of you 
Should think (though, of course, you 
never do) 
Of love, and home, and duty — 

And yet it often happens, you know, 

True to the very letter, 
That youths and maidens, when they 

grow. 
Swarm off from the dear old hive and 

go 
To another, for worse or better ! 

So you 'd better learn that this life of 
ours 
Is not all show and glitter. 
And skillfully use your noblest powers 
To suck the sweets from its poison 
flowers, 
And leave behind the bitter. 

But wherever you stay, or wherever you 
roam, 
In the days while you live in clover. 
You should gather your honey and 

bring it home. 
Because the winter will surely come, 
When the summer of life is over. 



POEMS FOR CHILDREN. 



327 



NORA'S CHARM. 

'T WAS the fisher's wife at her neigh- 
bor's door, 
And she cried, as she wrung her 
hands, 
" O Nora, get your cloak and hood, 
And haste with me o'er the sands." 

Now a kind man was the fisherman, 

And a lucky man was he ; 
And never a steadier sailed away 

From the Bay of Cromarty. 

And the wife had plenty on her board, 
And the babe in her arms was fair ; 

But her heart was always full of fear. 
And her brow was black with care. 

And she stood at her neighbor's door 
and cried, 
" Oh, woe is me this night ! 
For the fairies have stolen my pretty 
babe, 
And left me an ugly sprite. 

"My pretty babe, that was more than 
all 

The wealth of the world to me ; 
With his coral lips, and his hair of gold. 

And his teeth like pearls of the sea ! 

" I went to look for his father's boat, 
When I heard the stroke of the oar ; 

And 1 left him cooing soft in his bed, 
As the bird in her nest by the door. 

" And there was the father fair in sight. 
And pulling hard to the land ; 

And my foot was back o'er the sill 
again. 
Ere his keel had struck the sand. 

" But the fairies had time to steal my 
babe, 

And leave me in his place 
A. restless imp, with a wicked grin. 

And never a smile on his face." 

And Nora took her cloak and hood, 

And softly by the hand 
She led the fisher's wife through the 
night, 

Across the yellow sand. 

" Nay, do not rave, and talk so wild ; " 
'T was Nora thus that spoke.; 



" We must have our wits to work 
against 
The arts of fairy folk. 

" There 's a charm to help us in our 
need, 
But its power we cannot try, 
With the black cloud hanging o'er the 
brow, 
And the salt tear in the eye. 

" For wicked things may gibe and grin 

With noisy jeer and shout ; 
But the joyous peal of a happy laugh 

Has power to drive them out. 

" And if this sprite we can but please, 
Till he laughs with merry glee. 

We shall break the spell that holds him 
here, 
And keeps the babe from your knee." 

So the mother wiped her tears away, 

And patiently and long 
They plied the restless, stubborn imp 

With cunning trick and song. 

They blew a blast on the fisher's horn. 
Each curious prank they tried ; 

They rocked the cradle where he lay, 
As a boat is rocked on the tide. 

But there the hateful creature kept, 
In place of the human child ; 

And never once his writhing ceased, 
And never once he smiled. 

Then Nora cried, " Take yonder egg 

That lies upon the shelf. 
And make of it two hollow cups. 

Like tiny cups of delf." 

And the mother took the sea-mew's egg. 
And broke in twain the shell, 

And made of it two tiny cups. 
And filled them at the well. 

She filled them up as Nora bade. 

And set them on the coals : 
And the imp grew still, for he ne'er had 
seen 

In fairy-land such bowls. 

And when the water bubbled and boiled. 

Like a fountain in its play, 
Mirth bubbled up to his lips, and he 
laughed 

Till he laughed himself away ! 



328 



THE FORMS OF PHCEBE GARY. 



And the mother turned about, and felt 
The heart in her bosom leap ; 

For the imp was gone, and there in his 
place 
Lay her baby fast asleep. 

And Nora said to her neighbor, " Now 
There sure can be no doubt 

But a merry heart and a merry laugh 
Drive evil spirits out ! 

"And who can say but the dismal 
frown 
And the doleful sigh are the sin 
That keeps the good from our homes 
and hearts. 
And lets the evil in ! " 



THEY DID N'T THINK. 

Once a trap was baited 

With a piece of cheese ; 
It tickled so a little mouse 

It almost made him sneeze ; 
An old rat said, " There 's danger, 

Be careful where you go ! " 
" Nonsense ! " said the other, 

" I don't think you know ! " 
So he walked in boldly — 

Nobody in sight ; 
First he took a nibble, 

Then he took a bite ; 
Close the trap together 

Snapped as quick as wink, 
Catching mousey fast there, 

'Cause he did n't thinL 

Once a little turkey. 

Fond of her own way, 
Would n't ask the old ones 

Where to go or stay ; 
She said, " I 'm not a baby, 

Here I am half-grown ; 
Surely, I am big enough 

To run about alone ! " 
Off she went, but somebody 

Hiding saw her pass ; 
Soon like snow her feathers 

Covered all the grass. 
So she made a supper 

For a sly young mink, 
'Cause she was so headstrong 

That she would n't think. 

Once there was a robin 
Lived outside the door, 



Who wanted to go inside 

And hop upon the floor. 
" Ho, no," said the mother, 

" You must stay with me ; 
Little birds are safest 

Sitting in a tree." 
" I do n't care," said Robin, 

And gave his tail a fling, 
" I don't think the old folks 

Know quite everything." 
Down he flew, and Kitty seized him, 

Before he "d time to blink. 
" Oh," he cried, " I 'm sorry. 

But I did n't think." 

Now my little children, 

You who read this song, 
Don't you see what trouble 

Comes of thinking wrong.'' 
And can't you take a warning 

From their dreadful fate 
Who began their thinking 

When it was too late .'' 
Don't think there 's always safety 

Where no danger shows, 
Don't suppose you know more 

Than anybody knows ; 
But when you 're warned of ruin, 

Pause upon the brink, 
And don't go under headlong, 

'Cause you did n't think. 



AJAX. 

Old Aja.x was a faithful dog, 

Of the best and bravest sort ; 
And we made a friend and pet of 
him, 

And called him " Jax," for short. 
He served us well for many a year. 

But at last there came a day 
When, a superannuated dog. 

In the sun he idly lay. 

And though as kindly as before 

He still was housed and fed, 
We brought a younger, sprightlier dog 

For service in his stead. 
Poor "Jax ! " he knew and felt it all. 

As well as you or I ; 
He laid his head on his trembling 
paws. 

And his whine was like a cry. 

And then he rose : he would not stay 
Near where the intruder stayed ; 



POEMS FOR CHILDREN. 



329 



He took the other side of the house, 

Though that was in the shade. 
And he never answered when we 
calkd, 
He would not touch his bone ; 
'T was more than he could bear to 
have 
A rival near his throne. 

We tried to soothe his wounded pride 

By every kindly art ; 
But if ever creature did, poor " Jax " 

Died of a broken heart. 
Alas ! he would not learn the truth, 

He was not still a pup ; 
That every dog must have his day, 

And then must give it up ! 



" KEEP A STIFF UPPER LIP ! " 

There has something gone wrong 

My brave boy, it apj^ears, 
For I see your proud struggle 

To keep back the tears. 
That is right. When you cannot 

Give trouble the slip. 
Then bear it, still keeping 

" A stiff upper lip ! " 

Though you cannot escape 

Disappointment and care. 
The next best thing to do 

Is to learn how to bear. 
If when for life's prizes 

You 're running, you trip, 
Get up, start again — 

" Keep a stiff upper lip ! " 

Let your hands and your conscience 

Be honest and clean ; 
Scorn to touch or to think of 

The thing that is mean ; 
But hold on to the pure 

And the right with firm grip. 
And though hard be the task, 

" Keep a stiff upper lip ! " 

Through childhood, through man- 
hood, 

Through life to the end. 
Struggle bravely and>stand 

By your colors, my friend. 
Only yield when you must ; 

Never " give up the ship," 
But fight on to the last 

'< With a stiff upper lip ! " 



WHAT THE FROGS SING. 

" I 'VE got such a cold I cannot sing," 
Said a bull-frog living close to the 

spring, — 
" And it keeps me all the time so hoarse, 
That my voice is very bass of course. 
I hate to live in this nasty bog ; 
It is n't fit for a decent frog : 
Now there 's that bird, just hear the 

note 
So soft and sweet, from out her throat." 
He said, as a thrush in the tree above 
Was trilling her liquid song of love : 
" And what pretty feathers on her back, 
While mine is mottled, yellow and black ; 
And then for moving she has her wings. 
They must be very handy things ; — 
And this all comes, as one may see, 
Just from living up in a tree ; 
She 'd look as queer as I do, I '11 bet. 
If she had to live down here in the wet. 
And be as hoarse, if doomed to tramp 
About all day where her feet got damp. 

" As the world is managed, I do declare. 
Things do not seem exactly fair ; 
For instance, here on the ground I lie. 
While the bird lives up there, high and 

dry ; 
Some frogs may n't care, perhaps they 

don't, 
But I can't stand such things and I 

won't ; 
So I '11 see if I can't make a rise. 
Who knows what he can do till he 

tries ? " 

So this cunning frog he winked his eye, 
He was lying low and playing sly ; 
For he did not want the frogs about 
To find his precious secret out ; 
But when they were all in the mud a-bed, 
And the thrush in her wing had hid her 

head, . 
Then Mr. Bull his legs uncurled, 
And began to take a start in the world. 
'T was from the foot of the tree to hop. 
But how was he to reach the top ? 
For it was n't fun, as he learned in time. 
To climb with feet not made to climb ; 
And twenty times he fell on his head, 
But he would n't give it up, he said, 
For nobody saw him in the dark. 
So he clutched once more at the scraggy 

bark, 
And just as the stars were growing dim, 



330 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE GARY. 



He sat and swung on the topmost limb ; 
He was clamp with sweat from foot to 

head ; 
" Why it 's wet enough up here," he said, 
" And I 've been nicely fooled, I see, 
In thinking it dry to live in a tree. 
Why what with the rain, and with the 

dews, 
I shall have more water than I can use ! " 
And so he sat there, gay as a grig. 
And saw the sun rise bright and big ; 
And when he caught the thrush's note, 
He, too, began to tune his throat ; 
liut his style of music seemed to sound 
Even worse than it did on the ground ; 
So all the frightened birds took wing. 
And he felt, himself, that it was n't the 

thing, 
Though he said, " I don't believe what 

I 've heard 
That a frog in a tree won't be a bird." 
But soon the sun rose higher and 

higher. 
And froggy 's back got drier and drier. 
Till he thought perhaps it might be 

better, 
If the place was just a little wetter ; 
But when he felt the mid-day glare. 
He said " high life was a poor affair ! " 
No wings on his back were coming out, 
He did n't feel even a feather sprout ; 
He could n't sing ; and began to see 
He was just a bull-frog up a tree ; 
But he feared the sneers of his friends 

in the bog. 
For he was proud as any other frog ; 
And he knew, if they saw him coming 

down, 
He wouid be the laugh and jest of the 

town. 
So he waited there, while his poor dry 

back 
Seemed burning up, and ready to crack ; 
His yellow sides looked pale and dim, 
And his eyes with tears began to swim, 
And he said, " You learn when you 

come to roam, 
That nature is nature, and home is 

home." 

And when at last the sun was gone. 
And the shadows cool were stealing 

on. 
With many a slow and feeble hop 
He got himself away from the top ; 
He reached the trunk, and then with a 

bound 
He landed safely on the ground, 



And managed back to the spring to 

creep. 
While all his friends were fast asleep. 
Next morning, those who were sitting 

near, 
Saw that he looked a little queer. 
So they asked, hoping to have some fun, 
Where he had been, and what he had 

done. 
Now, though our hero scorned to lie, 
He thought he had a right to be sly ; 
For, said he, if the fellows find me out, 
I 'd better have been " up the spout." 
So he told them he 'd been very dry. 
And, to own the truth, got rather high I 
Then all the frogs about the spring 
Began at once this song to sing : 
First high it rose, and then it sunk : — 
" A frog - got - drunk - got - drunk - got- 

drunk — 
We '11-search - the-spring - for-his-whis- 

key-jug — 
Ka-chee, ka-chi, ka-cho, ka-chug ! " 
And my story 's true, as you may know, 
For still the bull-frogs sing just so ; 
But that Mr. Bull was up a tree, 
There 's nobody knows but himself and 



THE HUNCHBACK. 

If he walked he could not keep beside 

The lads that were straight and well ; 
And yet, poor boy, how hard he tried, 

There 's none of#us can tell. 
To get himself in trim for school 

Was weary work, and slow ; 
And once his thoughtless brother said, 

" You 're never ready, Joe ! " 

He sat in the sun, against the wall. 

When the rest were blithe and gay ; 
For he could not run and catch the 
ball. 

Nor join in the noisy play. 
And first or last he would not share 

In a quarrel or a fight; 
But he was prompt enough to say, 

" No, boys, it is n't right ! " 

And when a lad o'er a puzzling " sum* 
Perplexed his head in doubt, 

Poor little, patient, hunchbacked Joe, 
Could always help him out. 

And surely as the time came round 
To read, define, and spell, 



POEMS FOR CHILDREN. 



331 



Poor little Joe was ready first, 
And knew his lessons well. 

And not a child in Sunday-school 

Was half so quick as he, 
To tell who blessed the children once 

And took them on his knee. 
And if you coultl but draw him out, 

'T was gootl to hear him talk 
Of Him who made the blind to see 

And caused the lame to walk. 

When sick upon his bed he lay, 

He uttered no complaint ; 
For scarce in patient gentleness 

Was he behind a saint. 
And when the summons came, that 
soon 

Or late must come to all, 
Poor little, happy, hunchbacked Joe, 

Was ready for the call. 



THE ENVIOUS WREN. 

On the ground lived a hen, 

In a tree lived a wren. 
Who picked up her food here and 
there ; 

While biddy had wheat 

And all nice things to eat. 
Said the wren, " I declare, 't is n't fair ! " 

" It is really too bad ! " 

She exclaimed — she was mad — 
" To go out when it is raining this way ! 

And to earn what you eat. 

Does n't make your food sweet, 
In spite of what some folks may say. 

" Now there is that hen," 

Said this cross little wren, 
" She 's fed till she 's fat as a drum ; 

While I strive and sweat 

For each bug that I get, 
And nobody gives me a crumb. 

" I can't see for my life 

Why the old farmer's wife 
Treats her so much better than me • 

Suppose on the ground 

I hop carelessly round 
For a while, and just see what I '11 see." 

Said this 'cute little wren, 
" I '11 make friends with the hen. 
And perhaps she will ask me to stay ; 



And then upon bread 
Every day I 'd be fed. 
And life would be nothing but play." 

So down flew the wren. 

" Stop to tea," said the hen; 
And soon biddy's supper was sent; 

But scarce stopping to taste, 

The poor bird left in haste, 
And this was the reason she went : 

When the farmer's kind dame 

To the poultry-yard came, 
She said — and the wren shook with 
fright — 

" Biddy 's so fat she '11 do 

For a pie or a stew, 
And I guess I shall kill her to-night." 



THE HAPPY LITTLE WIFE. 

" Now, Gudhand, have you sold the 
cow 

You took this morn to town ? 
And did you get the silver groats 

In your hand, paid safely down .' 

" And yet I hardly need to ask ; 

You hardly need to tell ; 
For I see by the cheerful face you bring. 

That you have done right well." 

" Well ! I did not exactly sell her. 
Nor give her away, of course ; 

But I '11 tell you what I did, good wife, 
I swapped her for a horse." 

" A horse ! Oh, Gudhand, you have 
done 

Just what will please me best. 
For now we can have a carriage. 

And ride as well as the rest." 

" Nay, not so fast, my good dame, 

We shall not want a gig : 
I had not ridden half a mile 

Till I swapped my horse for a pig." 

"That 's just the thing," she answered, 
" I would have done myself : 

We can have a flitch of bacon now 
To put upon the shelf. 

" And when our neighbors come to dine 
With us, they '11 have a treat; 



332 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE GARY. 



There is no need that we should ride, 
But there is that we should eat." 

" Alack ! alack ! " said Gudhand, 
" I fear you '11 change your note, 

When I tell you I have n't got the pig — 
I swapped him for a goat." 

" Now, bless us ! " cried the good wife, 
" You manage things so well ; 

What I should ever do with a pig 
I 'm sure I cannot tell. 

" If I put my bacon on the shelf, 

Or put it in the pot, 
The folks would point at us and say 

' They eat up all they 've got ! ' 

" But a good milch goat, ah ! that 's the 
thing 
I 've wanted all my life ; 
And now we '11 have both milk and 
cheese," 
Cried the happy little wife. 

" Nay, not so fast," said Gudhand, 
" You make too long a leap ; 

When I found I could n't drive my goat, 
I swapped him for a sheep." 

" A sheep, my dear ! you must have 
tried 

To suit me all the time ; 
'T would plague me so to have a goat. 

Because the things will climb ! 

" But a sheep ! the wool will make us 
clothes 

To keep us from the cold ; 
Run out, my dear, this very night. 

And build for him a fold." 

" Nay, wife, it is n't me that cares 

If he be penned or loosed : 
I do not own the sheep at all, 

I swapped him for a goose." 

" There, Gudhand, I am so relieved ; 

It almost made me sick 
To think that I should have the wool 

To clip, and wash, and pick ! 

" 'T is cheaper, too, to buy our clothes. 
Than make them up at home ; 



And I have n't got a spinning-wheel, 
Nor got a carding-comb. 

" But a goose ! I love the taste of goosey 
When roasted nice and brown ; 

And then we want a feather bed. 
And pillows stuffed with down." 

" Now stop a bit," cried Gudhand, 
" Your tongue runs like a clock ; 

The goose is neither here nor there, 
I swapped him for a cock." 

" Dear me, you manage everything 

As I would have it done ; 
We '11 know now when to stir our 
stumps, 

And rise before the sun. 

" A goose would be quite troublesome 

For me to roast and stuff ; 
And then our pillows and our beds 

You know, are soft enough." 

" Well, soft or hard," said Gudhand, 
" I guess they '11 have to do ; 

And that we '11 have to wake at morn, 
Without the crowing, too ! 

" For you know I could n't travel 

All day with naught to eat ; 
So I took a shilling for my cock, 

And bought myself some meat." 

"That was the wisest thing of all," 
Said the good wife, fond and true ; 

" You do just after my own heart. 
Whatever thing you do. 

" We do not want a cock to crow, 

Nor want a clock to strike ; 
Thank God that we may lie in bed 

As long now as we like ! " 

And then she took him by the beard 

That fell about his throat. 
And said, ''While you are mine, 
want 

Nor goose, nor swine, nor goat ! " 

And so the wife kissed Gudhand, 
And Gudhand kissed his wife ; 

And they promised to each other 
To be all in all through life. 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



Page 
About the cottage, cold and white . . . .217 

A boy named Peter 178 

A breath, like the wind's breath, may carry 68 

Across the German ocean 220 

A cunning and curious splendor .... 83 
A farmer, who owned a fine orchard, one day 170 
After the cloud and the whirlwind .... 160 
Again, in the Book of Books, to-day . . . 288 
A half-score years have sped away • . . 194 
Ah! "Barefoot Boy!" you have led me 

back 252 

Ah, could I my poet only draw 94 

Ah, how the eye on the picture stops . . - 104 
Ah, she was not an angel to adore . . . 137 
Ah ! there are mighty things under the sun 80 
A huntsman, bearing his gun a-field . . . 325 
Ah I what will become of the lily .... 250 
Ah yes, I see the sunshine play . . . . 13S 

Alack, it is a dismal night 30 

Alas, alas! how many sighs 300 

A little boy who, strange to say 322 

A little downy chicken one day ..... 320 
All by the sides of the wide wild river . . 109 

All ill a dreary, April day 263 

All in the gay and golden weather ... 40 
All these hours she sits and counts . . 245 

All the time my soul is calling 152 

All upon a summer day 165 

Alone within my house I sit n8 

Along the grassy lane one day loi 

A man he was who loved the good . . . 291 

Among tlie beautiful pictures 130 

Among the pitfalls in our way 154 

And why are you pale, my Nora ? . . . . 8 
And why do you throw down your hoe by 

the way ? 169 

An eye with the piercing eagle's fire ■ . . 306 
An old, old house by the side of the sea . .116 

An orphan, through the world 297 

Apart from the woes that are dead and gone 70 
A poor blind man was traveling one day . 64 
A shepherd's child young Barbara grew . 203 
As I sit and watch at tlie window-pane . . 167 

As laborers set in a vineyard 245 

As one that leadeth a blind man .... 79 
As the still hours toward midnight wore . 136 
As violets, modest, tender-eyed .... 244 
At noon-time I stood in the doorway to see loi 
At the dead of niglit by the side of the sea . 68 
At the north end of our village stand . . 7 

Away, away in the Northland 323 

Away in the dim and distant past .... 242 

Away with all life's memories 157 

Aweary, wounded unto death . . . ■ . . 157 



A weaver sat one day at his loom . 
A wretched farce is our life at best 



Page 
■ 204 
• 26s 



Beautiful stories, by tongue and pen . . . 221 

Beautiful symbol of a freer life 60 

Because I have not done the things I know 87 
Behind the cottage the mill creek flowed . 192 
Be not much troubled about many things . 87 
Be with me, O Lord, when my life hath in- 
crease 293 

Blessings, alas unmerited 281 

Blessings, blessings on the beds .... 162 

Boatman, boatman ! my brain is wild . . 73 
Brightly for him the future smiled .... 235 

Brightly the morning sunshine glowed . . 202 
Brown-faced sailor, tell me true .... 126 

Busybody, busybody . . . ... 179 

By that name you will not know her . . . 235 

Care is like a husbandman 65 

Children, who read my lay 174 

Close at the window-pane Barbara stands . 55 
Clouds with a little light between . . . 156 
Come, bring me wild pinks from the valleys 136 
Come, darling, put your frown aside ... 20 
Come down, O Lord, and with us live ! . . 291 
Come down to us, help and heal us . . . 155 
Come, gather round me, children .... 175 

Come let us talk together 123 

Come, little children, come with me . . . 324 
Come, loveliest season of the year .... 257 
Come make for me a little song .... 104 
Come out from heaven, O Lord, and be my 

guide 158 

Come thou, my heavy soul, and lay . . . 145 
Come up, April, through the valley . . . 24S 

Comfort me with apples . 253 

Crooked and dwarfed the tree must stay . 285 
Cunning little fairy 250 

Darkness, blind darkness every way . . .158 
Darling, while the tender moon .... 262 
Dear, gentle Faith! on the sheltered porch 249 
Dear gracious Lord, if that thy [lain . . . 148 
Dear little children, where'er you be . . -311 
Do not look for wrong and evil .... 69 
Don't ever go hunting {or pleasures . . . 1S2 
Do we not say, forgive us. Lord .... 283 
Down and up, and up and down .... 72 
Down the peach-tree slid 66 

Each fearful storm thnt o'er us rolls . . . 159 
Earth seems as peaceful and as bright . 2S0 
Earth, with its dark and dreadful ills . . . 160 



334 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



Page 

Egalton's bills are sunny 13 

Emily Mayfield all the day iS 

Even as a child too well she knew .... 23S 

Fainter and fainter may fall on my ear . . 264 
Fair girl, the light of whose morning keeps 243 
Fair Kirtle, hastening to the sea .... 215 
Fair youth, too timid to lift your eyes . . 267 

Faithless, perverse, and Ijjind 292 

False and fickle, or fair and sweet .... 22S 
Fame guards the wreath we call a crown . 83 

Flower of tlie deep red zone 104 

For the sharp conflicts I have had with sin 139 
Fort Wagner! that is a place for us . . . 307 
Friends, let us slight no pleasant spring . .76 
From the old Squire's dwelling, gloomy and 

grand iSg 

From tlie outward world about us .... 92 
Full early in the dewy time of year ... 86 

Get up, my httle handmaid 12 

Go not far in the land of light! 135 

Good mother, what quaint legend are you 

reading 28 

Good old mother Fairie 171 

Good Saint Macarius, full of grace . . . 215 

Gracie rises with a light 223 

Great master of the poet's art ! 306 

Haste, little fingers, haste, haste .... 128 
Has the spring come back, my darling . .119 
Have you been in our wild west country? 

then 116 

Heart-sick, homeless, weak, and weary . . 43 
He had drunk from founts of pleasure . , 2S1 
He has gone at last : yet I could not see . 233 
He knew what mortals know when tried . 301 

Helpless before the cross I lay 296 

Hemmed in by the hosts of the Austrians . 307 

Her brown hair plainly put away . . 

Her casement like a watchful eye . . 

Her cup of life with joy is full . . . 

Here is the sorrow, the sighing . . 

Her heart was light as human heart can 

Her silver lamp half-filled with oil . . 

Her skies, of whom I sing, are hung . 

Her voice was sweet and low : Tier face 

Her voice was tender as a lullaby . . 

He sat all alone in his dark little room 

He spoils his house and throws his pains 

away 60 

His hands with earthly work are done . . 300 
His sheep went idly over the hills ... 73 

Honest little Peter Grey 181 

Hope in our hearts doth only stay .... 144 
Hope wafts my bark, and round my way . 269 

How are we living? 71 

How can you speak to me so, Charlie! . . 228 
How dare I in thy courts appear ... 281 
How dreary would the meadows be . . . 170 
Hushed is the even-song of the bird . . . 200 



I am weary of the working 78 

I asked the angels in my prayer .... 157 
I ask not wealth, but power to take . . . 240 
I do not think the Providence unkind . . 67 
I dreamed I had a plot of ground .... 72 
I dreamed I had a plot of ground .... 135 

H fancy do not all deceive 269 

If he walked he could not keep beside . . 330 
HI were a painter, I could paint . . .98 

If one had never seen the full completeness 89 
If something wails, and you should now . 319 



be 



. 241 

85 
S8 
76 



Page 

If we should see one sowing seed .... 86 
If when thy children, O my friend .... 292 

If you're told to do a thing 325 

If you "ve tried and have not won .... 318 

I have a heavenly home 280 

I have been little used to frame .... 147 
I have been out to-day in field and wood . 254 

I have no moan to make 304 

I have sinned, I have sinned, before thee, 

the Most Holy 284 

I heard the gay spring coming 80 

I hold that Christian grace abounds ... 78 
I knew a man — I know him still .... 74 

I know a little damsel 127 

I know not what the world may be . . . 134 
I know that Edgar 's kind and good . . . 214 
I know you are always by my side . . . 303 
I '11 tell you two fortunes, my fine little lad . 182 
I love my love so well, I would .... 
I love the deep quiet — all buried in leaves 
I love the flowers that come about with 

spring 

I 'm getting better, Miriam, though it tires 

me yet to speak 222 

Impatient women as you wait 239 



271 
117 



107 



In a little bird's nest of a house 

In a patch of clearing scarcely more . . 

In asking how I came to choose 

In my lost childhood old folks said to me 

In the dead of night to the dead-house . 

In the pleasant springtime weather . . 

In the shade of the cloister, long ago . . 

In the stormy waters of Gallaway . . . 

In the time when the little flowers are born 208 

In the village church where a child she was 



176 

34 
125 
69 

4S 
129 
2S9 



led 



In the years that now are dead and gone 
In thy time, and times of mourning . . 

Into the house ran Lettice 

In vain the morning trims her brows . . 
In what a kingly fashion man doth dwell 
I said, if I might go back again .... 
I saw in my dream a wonderful stream . 
I see him part the careless throng . . . 
I sit in my sorrow a-weary, alone . . . 
Is it you. Jack ? Old boy, is it really you ? 
I think there are some maxims .... 
I think true love is never blind . . 
I thought to find some healing clime . . 
I took a little good seed in my hand . . 
It was a sandy level wherein stood . . 
It was not day, and was not night . . 
I 've got such a cold, I cannot sing 
I walked from our wild north country once 

I was out in the country 

I will call her when she comes to me 



Jenny Brown has as pretty a house of her 

own 316 

Jenny Dunleath coming back to the town . 22 
Johnny Right, his hand was brown . . 33 

Last night, when the sweet young moon 

shone clear 214 

Laugh out, O stream, from your bed of 

green 261 

Lest the great glory from on high . . . .156 

Lest to evil ways I run 149 

Life grows belter every day 239 

Life's sadly solemn mystery 159 

Lift up the years! lift up the years ... 52 

Like a child that is lost 150 

Like to that little homely flower .... 130 



198 
248 
152 
3 
136 

77 
233 
121 
271 

S3 

16 
181 
266 
234 
283 
110 

94 

329 

9 

317 

no 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



335 



Page 

Lntle children, you must seek 172 

Little Daisy smiling wakes 255 

Loaded with gallant soldiers 305 

Lord, with wjiat body do they come . . . 2S7 
" Love thee ? " Thou canst not ask of me . 269 

Master, I do not ask that thou 159 

Men silenced on his faithful lips .... 309 
Morn on the mountains! streaks of roseate 

light los 

Most favored lady in the land 239 

Mother 's quite distracted 318 

Mr. Wrer. and his dear began early one 

year _ 205 

My Carmia, my life, my saint ..... 128 
My God, I feel thy wondrous might . . . 154 
My head is sick and my heart is faint . . 267 
My heart thou niakest void, and full . . . 133 
My homely flower that blooms along . . . 106 

My lad who sits at breakfast 177 

My little birds, with backs as brown . . .108 

My little love hath made 124 

My Rose, so red and round 106 

My sorrowing friend, arise and go ... 131 
" Kly sweetest Dorothy," said John . . . 208 
My thoughts, I fear, run less to right than 

wrong 90 

Nav, darling, darling, do not frown . . . 242 
Ne'er lover spake in tenderer words . . . 260 

Neii^hbored by a maple wood 26 

No glittering chaplet brought from other 

lands 95 

Nor far nor near grew shrub nor tree . .113 
No tears for him ! his light was not your 

light 95 

Not what we think but what we do ... 73 
Now give me your burden, if burden you 

bear , 48 

Now, good wife, bring your precious hoard . 219 
Now, Gudhand, have you sold the cow . . 331 
No whit is gained, do you say to me ... 31 
Now in the waning autumn days .... 196 
Now tell me all my fate, Jennie .... 129 
Now the hickory, with its hum 17 

O brothers and sisters, growing old . . . 232 

O cousin Kit MacDonald 37 

O day to sweet religious thought .... 153 
O doubly-bowed and bruised reed . . . . 302 
O'er the miller's cottage the seasons glide . 199 

O fickle and uncertain March 253 

O friends, we are drawing nearer home . . 131 

Often I sit and spend my hour 93 

Of the precious years of my life, to-day . . 289 
Of what are you dreaming, my pretty maid 249 
Oh, for a mind more clear to see .... 29S 

Oh, good painter, tell me true 99 

Oh, if this living soul, that many a time . . 293 

Oh tell me, sailor, tell me true 6 

Oh. the tender joy of those autumn hours . 197 
Oh to be back m the cool summer shadow . 268 

Oh what a day it was to us 24 

Oh what is thy will toward us mortals . . 62 

O ladies, softly fair 112 

O Land, of every land the best 242 

Old Ajax was a faithful dog 328 

Old Death proclaims a holocaust .... 50 
Old pictures, faded long, to-night .... 251 
O Loving One, O Bounteous One .... 282 

O memory, be sweet to me 108 

O men, with wounded hearts 29S 

O mourner, moiu'n not vanished light . . .ji 



Page 
O my friend, O my dearly beloved . . . _ . 273 
Once, a long time ago, so good stories begin 212 
" ■ ' " 328 

272 
J83 
29s 
94 
178 
263 

59 

60 



Once a trap was baited 
Once, being charmed by thy smile . . . 
Once in a rough, wild country .... 
Once — in the ages that have passed away 
Once more, despite the noise of wars 
Once when morn was flowing in ... 
Once, when my youth was in its flower . 
Once when the messenger that stays . . 
One autumn-time I went into the woods 

One day, a poor peddler 

One moment, to strictly run out by the 

sands 

One on another against the wall . . . 
" One story more," the whole world cried 

One summer night 

One sweetly solemn thought 

Only a newsboy, under the light . . . 

On the ground lived a hen 

O river, why lie with your beautiful face 
O Rosamond, thou fair and good . . . 
O summer! my beautiful, beautiful summer 
O sweet and charitable friend . . . 
O Thou, who all my life hast crowned 
O Thou, who dost the sinner meet 
O time by holy prophets long foretold 
Our days are few and full of' strife . . 
Our generals sat in their tent one night 
Our God is love, and that which we miscall 
Our life is like a march where some . . 
Our mightiest in our midst is slain . . 
Our old brown homestead reared its walls 
Our sun has gone down at the noonday . 
Our unwise purposes are wisely crossed 
Out of the earthly years we live . . . 
Out of the heavens come down to me 
Out of the wild and weary night . 
O winds ! ye are too rough, too rough 
O years, gone down into the past . 

Peace! for my brain is on the rack 
Phantoms come and crowd me thick 
Pleasure and pain walk hand in hand 
Poet, whose lays our memory still 
Poor little moth! thy summer sports 
done 



Questioning, blind, unsatisfied . 

Red in the east the morning broke . . , %\ 
Round and round the wheel doth run . . 81 

Says John to his mother, " Look here" . 167 
Seek not to walk by borrowed light ... 70 
Seven great windows looking seaward . . 13 
She was so good, we thought before she died 243 
Shine down, little head, so fair . . . . . 128 
Shorter and shorter now the twilight clips . 114 
Show you her picture ? here it lies! . . . 132 
Since : if you stood by my side to-day . . 234 
Since thou wouldst have me show . . .125 
.Sing me a song, my nightingale .... 125 
Sinner, careless, proud, and cold .... 296 

Sitting by my fire alone 102 

So I 'm "crazy ■' in loving a man of three- 
score 

Solitude — Life is inviolate solitude 

Some comfort when all else is night . . . loj 

.Sometimes for days 67 

.Sometimes the softness of the embracing air 82 
Sometimes when hopes have vanished, one 

aud all SS 



47 

J09 

30s 
74 
278 
247 
331 
70 
276 
119 
259 
151 
148 
284 
151 
227 
iSt 
24 1 
i6i 
256 
404 
69 
153 
152 
137 
130 
286 

38 
85 
156 
309 



336 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



Page 

Sometimes, when rude, cold shadows run . g6 
So she goes sometimes past Dovecote Mill igs 
Stay yet a little longer in the sky .... 96 

Steer hither, rough old mariner . . 
Still alway srroweth in me the great wonder 
Still from the unsatisfying quest . . . 
Stop, traveler, just a moment at my gate 
Strange, strange for thee and me . . , 
Sunset ! a hush is on the air . . . . , 

Suppose, my little lady ...... 

Suppose your hand with power supplied 
Swiftly onward the seasons flew . . , 
■Swiftly the season sped away . . . 



Tell me, Effie, while you are sitting . . 
Tell you a story, do vou say ? .... 
The best man should never pass by . . 
The black walnut-logs in the chimney 
The boughs they blow across the pane . 
The clouds all round the sky are black . 
The crocus rose from her snowy bed . . 
The day, with a cold, dead color . . . 
The farm-lad quarried from the mow 
The glance that doth thv neighbor doubt 
The good dame looked from her cottage 
The grass lies fiat beneath the wind 
The heart is not satisfied .... 
The hills are bright with maples yet 
The house lay snug as a robin's nest 
The Lady Marjory lay on her bed . 
The leaves are fading and falling . 
The long day is closing .... 
The long grass burned brown . . 
The maiden has listened to loving words 
The moon's gray tent is up ; another hour 
The morn is hanging here fire-fringed veil 
The path of duty I clearly trace 

The pig and the hen 

There are eyes that look through us . 
There has something gone wrong . . 
There is hovering about me .... 
There is comfort in the world ... 
There is work good man, for you to-day 
There was a good and reverend man . 
There was an old woman . . _ 
There were seven fishers, with nets in their 

hands 

The smoke of the Indian summer 
The solemn word had spread 
The stone upon the wayside seed that fell 
The story books have told you . . . 
The stream of life is going dry . . . 
The sun of a sweet summer morning . 
The sun, who smiles wherever he goes 
The lime has come, as I knew it must 
The truth lies round about us, all . . 
The waiting-women wait at her feet . 
The waves, they are wildly heaving . 
The west shines out through the lines 

jet 

The wild and windy March once more 
The wind blows where it listeth . . 
The wind is blowing cold from the west 
The winter goes and the summer comes 
The year has lost its leaves again . . 
They set me up, and bade me stand . 
Things that I have to hold and keep, 

there 

Think on him, Lord ! we ask thy aid . 

This extent hath freedom's ground 

This happy day, whose risen sun . . 

Though Nature's lonesome, leafless bowers 253 

Though never shown by word or deed . • 71 



ah 



Paga 
Though sin hath marked thy brother's brow 147 
Though we were parted, or though he had 

died . 266 

Thnu givest. Lord, to Nature law .... 156 
Thou, under Satan's fierce control . . . 14s 

Three little bugs in a basket 168 

Thy works, O Lord, interpret tjiee . . . 151 
Till I learned to love thy name' .... 155 

Time makes us eagle-eyed 83 

'T is all right, as I knew it would be by and 

by 229 

'T is a sad truth, yet 'tis a truth . . . . 23S 
To begin in things quite simple .... 179 

To Him who is the Life of life 155 

Toiling early, and toiling late 240 

Too meek by half was he who came . . . 261 

Too much of ^oy is sorrowful 68 

True worth is in being, not seeming ... 84 
Trying, trying — always trying .... 66 
Turning some papers carelessly .... 260 
'Twas a lonesome couch we came to spread 303 
'Twas a night to make the bravest . . .213 
'Twas in the middle of summer .... 10 
'T was the fisher's wife at her neighbor's 

door 327 

Two careless, happy children 252 

Two clouds in the early morning .... 54 
Two thirsty travelers chanced one day to 

meet 69 

Two travelers, meeting by the way ... 63 
Two young men, when I was poor . . • • 75 



Unpraised but of my simple rhymes . 
Up ere the throstle is out of the thorn 
Up Gregory ! the cloudy east . . . 
Upon her cheek such color glows . . 



Very simple are my pleasures . , 
Vile, and deformed by sin I stand 



153 
40 
162 
237 

64 

282 



Wake, Dillie, my darling, and kiss me . . 144 
Watch her kindly, stars ... ... 270 

We always called her " poor Margaret " . 224 
We are face to face and between us here . 272 
We are proclaimed even against our wills . 63 
We are the mariners, and God the sea . . 82 

We contradictory creatures 65 

We heard his hammer all day long . . . 162 
Well, you have seen it — a tempting spot! . igo 
We 're married, they say, and you think 

you have won me • 121 

We scarce could doubt our Father's power . 257 

We stood, my soul and I 264 

We used to think it was so queer .... s 
What comfort, when with clouds of woe . 13S 
What is it that doth spoil the fair adorning 85 
What is my little sweetheart like, d' you 

say ? 124 

What is time, O glorious Giver .... 151 

What 'II you have, John ? 180 

What shall I do when I stand in my place . 147 
When her mind was sore bewildered . . . 294 
When I see the long wild briers .... 111 
When I think of the weary nights and 

days 8 

When I was young — it seems as though . 56 
When March has gone with his cruel wind 326 
When skies are growing warm and bright . iiy 
When spring-time prospers in the grass . . 65 
When steps are hurrying homeward . . . 134 
When the birds were mating aud build- 
ing 217 

When the cares of day are ended .... 184 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



337 



Page 
When the mildew's blight we see .... i6o 
When the morning first uncloses .... 92 
When the way we should tread runs evenly 

on 243 

When the world no solace gives .... 298 
When you would have sweet flowers to 

smell and hold 237 

While I hid mine eyes, I feared .... 303 
While shines the sun, the storm even then . 84 
Why are we so impatient of delay .... 291 
Why do you come to my apple-tree . . . 180 
Why should our spirits be opprest . . . 161 

Why weep ye for the falling 148 

Will the mocking daylight never be done . 246 



Page 
With cobwebs and dust on the window 

spread 191 

With eyes to her sewing-work dropped down 49 
With her white face full of agony .... 239 
Woodland, green and gay with dew . . .114 

Ye winds, that talk among the pines . . . 232 
You have sent me from her tomb .... 301 
You know th' forks of th' road, and th' 

brown mill? 114 

You never said a word to me 263 

You restless, curious little Jo 321 

You think I do not love you ! why . . . 6e 
You 've read of a spider, I suppose . . . 179 



INDEX OF TITLES 



[The titles in small capital letters are those of the principal divisions of the work, those in lower 
case are of single poems or the subdivisions of long poems.] 



Adelied, 153. 

Ajax, 328. 

Alas! 234. 

All in All, 157. 

Alone, 147. 

Amy's Love-Letter, 260. 

Answered, 234. 

Apology, 242. 

April, III. 

April Welcome, An, 248. 

Archie, 268. 

Arthur's Wife, 222. 

At Rehearsal, 37. 

At Sea, 126. 

At the Tavern, 180. 

Autumn, 114. 

Baby, The, 199. 

Baby's Ring, 318. 

Balder's Wife, 37. 

Ballad of Lauderdale, A, 203. 

Ballad of Uncle Joe, 56. 

Ballads and Narrative Poems, 3, 18 

Barbara at the Window, 55. 

Barbara Blue, 172. 

Barbara in the Meadow, 56. 

" Barefoot Boy, The," 252. 

Be Still, 136. 

Best Judgment, The, 12. 

Best, to the Best, 66. 

Beyond, 237. 

Black Ranald, 208. 

Blackbird, The, 109. 

Blind Traveler, The, 64. 

Book of Nature, The, 257. 

Border- Land, 303. 

Breaking the Roads, 217. 

Bridal Hour, The, 80. 

Bridal Veil, The, 121. 

Brown, John, 309. 

Buried Gold, 176. 

Canticle, A, 293. 

Care, 65. 

Carmia, 128. 

Chicken's Mistake, The, 320. 

Child's Wisdom, A, 184. 



Chopper's Child, The, 43. 

Christmas, 284, 287. 

Christmas Sheaf, The, 219. 

Christmas Story, A, 162. 

Comfort, 73. 

Coming Home, 232. 

Coming Round, 229. 

Compensation, 285. 

Complaint, 266. 

Confessiou, A, 127. 

Consolation, 131. 

Contradiction, 117. 

Contradictory, 65. 

Cottage and Hall, 49. 

Counsel, 70, 147. 

Country Grave- Yard, The, 195. 

Cowper's Consolation, 301. 

Cradle Song, 109. 

Crags, 77. 

Crazy Christopher, 26. 

Crow's Children, The, 325. 

Cry of the Heart, A, 29S. 

Cry of the Heart and Flesh, The, 294. 

Damaris, 114. 

Dan and Dimple, and how they quarreled, 179. 

Dappledun, 322. 

Daughter, The, 30. 

Dawn of Peace, The, 160. 

Day Dream, A, 269. 

Dead and Alive, 155. 

Dead- House, The, 45. 

Dead Love, 272. 

Dickens, 305. 

Disenchanted, 234. 

Do you Blame her ? 260. 

Don't Give up, 318. 

Dorothy's Dower, 208. 

Double Skein, The, 40. 

Dovecote Mill, 189. 

Doves' Eyes, 266. 

Drawing Water, 281. 

Dream, A, 72. 

Dream of Home, A, 102. 

Dreams, 93. 

Dreams and Realities, 276, 

Dying Hymn, 160. 



INDEX OF TITLES. 



339 



Earth to Earth, 300. 
Earthly House, The, 295. 
Easter Bridal Song, 127. 
Easy Lessons, 324. 
Ebb-Tide, 239. 
Edgar's Wife, 214. 
Edge of Doom, The, 43. 
Effie's Reasons, 320. 
Emblem, An, 124. 
Enchantment, 270. 
Envious Wren, The, 331. 
Epithalaraium, 129. 
Equality, 239. 
Evening Pastimes, 102. 
Extremities, 160. 

Fable of Cloudland, A, 54. 

Faded Leaves, 103. 

Fair Eleanor, 217. 

Fairy-Folk, 175. 

Faith, 249. 

Faith and Works, 73. 

p'aithful, 264. 

Faithless, 13. 

Fame, 83. 

Farmer's Daughter, The, 58 

Father, The, 200. 

Favored, 237. 

Feathers, 321. 

Felled Tree, The, 71. 

P^erry of Gallaway, The, 28, 

Fickle Day, The, 214. 

" Field Preaching," 254. 

Field Svveet-Brier, The, 107. 

Fifteen and Fifty, 20. 

Figs of Thistles, 245. 

Fire by the Sea, The, 149. 

Fisherman's Wife, The, 38. 

Flax-Beater, The, 48. 

Flower Spider, The, 179. 

For Self-Help, 159. 

Forgiveness, 14**. 

Fortune in the Daisy, The, 249. 

Fourth of July, 1864, Written on the, 94. 

Fragment, A, no. 

Gardener's Home, The, 190. 

Garibaldi in Piedmont, 307. 

Gathering Blackberries, 255. 

Genius, S3. 

God is Love, 80. 

Going to Court, 109. 

Golden Mean, The, 149. 

Good and Evil, 59. 

Good Day, A, 280. 

Good Little Sister, The, 318. 

Good Rule, A, 170. 

" Grace Wife of Keith, The," 31. 

Gracie, 223. 

Grateful Swan, The, 173. 

Gray Swan, The, 6. 

Great Question, The, 138. 

Griselda Goose, 311. 

Growing Rich, 8. 

Hagen Walder, 5. 

Happy Little Wife, The, 331. 

Happy Women, 239. 

Harmless Luxury, The, 241. 

Heaven that 's Here, The, 154. 

Heir, The, 297. 

Helpless, 263. 

Here and There, 160. 

Hero of Fort Wagner, The, 307. 



Hidden Sorrow, 233. 
Hide and Seek, 167. 
Hints, 69. 

Hives and Homes, 326. 
Homesick, 253. 
Homestead, The, 189. 
Honey-Bee, To a, 179, 
How and Where, 71. 
How Peace Came, 136. 
Hugh Thorndyke, 13. 
Human and Divine, 282. 
Hunchback, The, 330. 
Hunter's Wife, The, 267. 
Hymn, 281, 291, 298. 

I cannot Tell, 272. 
Idle, 80. 
Idle Fears, 69. 
If and If, 98. 
Impatience, 246. 
In Absence, 270. 
In Bonds, 84. 
In Despair, 134. 
In Extremity, 283. 
In His Arms, 292. 
In the Dark, iig, 133. 
In Vain, 66. 
Inconstancy, 263. 
Intimations, 138. 
Invalid's Plea, An, 119. 
Invocation, 155. 

January, 146. 
Jealousy, 271. 
Jennie, 129, 301. 
Jenny Dunleath, 22. 
Johnny Right, 33. 

Katrina on the Porch, 116. 

" Keep a stiff upper Lip ! " 329. 

King's Jewel, The, 213. 

Lady Jaqueline, The, 228. 

Lady Marjory, 224. 

Lady to the Lover, The, 125. 

Lamp on the Prairie, The, 230. 

Landlord of the Blue Hen, The, 212. 

Last Act, The, 265. 

Last and Best, 96. 

Last Bed, The, 303. 

Latent Life, 71. 

Law of Liberty, The, 78. 

Leak in the Dike, The, 210. 

Legend of the Northland, A, 32J. 

Lesson, A, 60, 115. 

Lesson of Mercy, A, 178. 

Life, 88. 

Life of Life, 155. 

Life's Mysteries, 81. 

Life's Mystery, 159. 

Life's Roses, 92. 

Light, 87, 303. 

Light and Darkness, 158. 

Light of Days gone by, The, 103. 

Lincoln, Abraham, 95. 

Little Blacksmith, The, 162. 

Little Children, 162. 

Little Cyrus, 18. 

Little Gottlieb, 220. 

Little House on the Hill, The, 108. 

Living by Faith, 243. 

Living Present, The, 76, 

Loss and Gain, 239. 

Lost Lilies, 132. 



340 



INDEX OF TITLES. 



Love cannot Die, 263. 

Love is Life, 151. 
Love's Recompense, 271. 
Love's Secret Springs, 126. 
Lover's Interdict, The, 122. 
Lovers and Sweethearts, 267. 
Lyric, 156. 

Maid and Man, 40. 

Maid of Kirconnel, The, 215. 

Make-BeUeve, 165. 

Man, -]•). 

Many Mansions, 278. 

March Crocuses, 253. 

Measure of Time, The, 68. 

Memorial, 240. 

Mercies, 156. 

Might of Love, The, 31. 

Might of Truth, The, 63. 

Mill, The, iqi. 

Mines of Avondale, The, 50. 

Miriam, 130. 

Monkish Legend, A, 221. 

More Life, 65. 

Morning, 144. 

Morning and Afternoon, 243. 

Morning in the Mountains, 105. 

Most Beloved, 133. 

Mother and Son, 235. 

Mother Fairie, To, 171. 

Mourn Not, 131. 

Muse, To the, 85. 

My Creed, 78. 

My Darlings, 106, 134. 

My Dream of Dreams, 118. 

My Faded Shawl, 14. 

My Friend, 273. 

My Good Angel, 64. 

My Helper, 264. 

My Lady, 244. 

My Neighbor's House, 248. 

My Picture, 104. 

My Poet, 94. 

My Riches, 245. 

Mysteries, 156. 

Nearer Home, 278. 

No Ring, 85. 

Nobility, 84. 

Nobody's Child, 247, 

Nora"s Charm, 327. 

Not Now, 77. 

November, 164. 

Now, 319. 

Now and Then, 125. 

Nut Hard to Crack, A, 167. 

Obedience, 325. 

Occasional, 158. 

Of One Flesh, 291. 

Old Adam, 67. 

Old Chums, i6. 

Old Homestead, The, 117. 

Old House, The, 108. 

Old Man's Darling, The, 227. 

Old Maxims, 181. 

Old Pictures, 251. 

Old Story, The, 36. _ 

On Seeing a Drowning Moth, 59. 

On Seeing a Wild Bird, 60. 

On the River, 262. 

On the Sea, 110. 

One Dust, 145. 

One Moment, 47. 



One of Many, 74, 87. 

Open Secrets, 79. 

Order for a Picture, An, 99. 

Ornament, The only, 238. 

Other Side, The, 135. 

Otway, 309. 

Our Good President, 309. 

Our Homestead, 256. 

Our Pattern, 294. 

Our School-Master, 5. 

Over-Payment, 283. 

Parting Song, 154- 

Passing Feet, 245. 

Peace, 242. 

Peccavi, 284. 

Penitent's Plea, A, 150. 

Personal Poems, 305. 

Peter Grey, 181. 

Picture, A, 249. 

Picture-Book, The, 9. 

Pictures of Memory, 130. 

Pig and the Hen, The, 177, 

Pitiless Fate, 121. 

Playmates, The, 192, 252. 

Plea for Charity, 89. 

Pleasure and Pain, 156. 

Pledges, 82. 

Plighted, 197. 

Poems for Children, 162, 311. 

Poems of Gkief and Consolation, 131, 300. 

Poems of Love, 121. 

Poems of Love and Friendship, 260. 

Poems of Nature and Home, 98, 248. 

Poems of Thought and Feeling, 59, 232. 

Poor Margaret, 224. 

Poppies, 112. 

Prairie on Fire, The, 322. 

Prayer, A, 147, 240. 

Prayer for Light, 62. 

Prize, The, 269. 

Prodigal's Plea, 128. 

Prodigals, 288. 

Proverbs in Rhyme, 83. 

Providence, 75, 250. 

Pure in Heart, The, 157. 

Putting off the Armor, 148. 

Queen of Roses, 124. 

Rain and Sunshine, 317. 

Ready, 305. 

Realities, 297. 

Recipe for an Appetite, 177. 

Reconciled, 286. 

Religious Poems and Hymns, 139, 3781 

Remember, 152. 

Retrospect, 282. 

Revolutionary Story, 28. 

Rich, though Poor, 61. 

Robin's Nest, The, 316. 

Rose, The, 268. 

Rustic Painter, The, 73. 

Ruth and I, 4. 

Saddest Sight, The, 79. 

Safe, 117. 

Saint Macarius of the Desert, 215. 

Sandy Macleod, 8. 

Saved, 95. 

School, The, 193. 

Sea, On the, no. 

Sea Song, A, 104, 113. 

Seaside Cave, The, 68. 



INDEX OF TITLES. 



341 



Seal Fisher's Wife, The, 128. 

Second Sight, 90. 

Secret Writing, 92. 

Self- Help, For, 159. 

Selfish Sorrow, 41. 

Sermon for Young Folks, A, 182. 

Sermons in Stones, 104. 

Settler's Christmas F,ve, The, 34. 

Shadow, The, 74, 136, 243. 

Shadows, 11 1. 

Shoemaker, The, 17. 

Short Sermon, A, 174. 

Signs of Grace, 145. 

Sinner at the Cross, The, 296. 

Sixteen, 61. 

Snowed Under, 123. 

Solitude, To, 78. 

Somebody's Lovers, iQi, 

Sometimes, 67. 

Song 261, 271. 

Special Darling, The, loi. 

Spent and Misspent, 96. 

Spider and Fly, 178. 

Spirit of Song, To the, 2. 

Spiritual Body, The, 280. 

Spring after the War, 257. 

Spring Flowers, 259. 

St. Bernard of Clairvaux, 289. 

Stevens, Tliaddeus, 306. 

Story of a Blackbird, 175. 

Stream of Life, The, 154. 

Stroller's Song, 60. 

Substance, 159. 

Sugar-Making, 191, 258. 

Summer Storm, The, loi. 

Sunday Morning, 153. 

Sunset, 242. 

Supplication, 148, 151. 

Suppose, 170, 323. 

Sure Anchor, 152. 

Sure Witness, The, 150. 

Take Care, 172. 

Teach us to Wait ! 291. 

Telling Fortunes, 182. 

Tent Scene, A, 227. 

Text and Moral, 86. 

Thanksgiving, 139. 

Theodora, 235. 

The, did n't Think, 328. 

This is All, 66. 

Thistle Flower, The, 106. 

Thorns, 67. 

Thou and I, 246. 

Thou Knovvest, 287. 

Three Bugs, 168. 

Three Wrens, The, 205. 

Time, 151. 

To a Honey-Bee, 179. 

To a Stagnant River, 70. 

To an Elf on a Buttercup, iffl. 

To Mother Fairie, 171 

To My Friend, 86. 



To Solitude, 78. 
To the Children, 311. 
To the Muse, 85. 
To the Spirit of Song, a. 
To the Wind, i8. 
Too Late, 281. 
Tricksey's King, 24. 
Tried and True, 241. 
True Love, 266. 
Trust, 88, 157. 
Twice Smitten, 302. 
Two Travelers, 63. 

Unbelief, 292. 
Uncut Leaf, The, 62. 
Under the Shadow, 131, 
Unhonored, Tlie, 300. 
Unsatisfied, 158. 
Unwise Choice, The, 75. 
Up and Down, 236. 

Vain Repentance, 283. 
Vanished, 137. 
Via Crucis, Via Lucis, 290. 
Victory of Perry, The, 52. 
Vision on the Mount, The, 293. 

Wait, 135. 

Waiting, 138. 

Waiting for Something to turn up, 169. 

Waiting the Cliange, 304. 

Walk through the Snow, A, 9. 

Washerwoman, The, 7. 

Water-Bearer, Tlie, 10. 

Weary Heart, A, 232. 

Weaver's Dream, The, 76. 

Wedded, 198. 

West Country, The, 116. 

What a Bird Taught, 180. 

What the Frogs Sing, 329. 

Whither, 152. 

Whittier, John Greenleaf, 306. 

Widow's Thanksgiving, The, 289. 

Wife, The, 202. 

Wife's Christmas, The, 228. 

Wind, To the, iS. 

Window just over the Street, The, 53. 

Winter and Summer, 113. 

Winter Flowers, 253. 

Wintry Waste, A, 135. 

Wise Fairy, The, 183. 

Woman's Answer, A, 269. 

Womai\'s Conclusions, A, 233. 

Women, 238. 

Wonder, A, 133. 

Wooed and Won, 270. 

Wooing, 196. 

Work, 72. 

Wounded, 298. 

Ye did it unto Me, 296. 
Young Soldier, The, 3. 
Youth and Maiden, 194. 



HAR -0 13'i2 



